I started to write a story..!

Unfortunately,
it seems I got lost along the way
to making a point.
So I pointed with my finger in a direction
outside the window and, it wasn’t much,
but I started to feel like there was something
worth looking at over there.

Did I deny the palpable evidence that nothing
and no one was staring back?
Did I envisage a petty figment, a mirage,
a sudden hollow hallucination?

I don’t know I’m not sure I can’t quite figure
this whole thing out.
I just pointed.
And looked.
And wrote a few lines that tried to signify…

That the world is amusing, a muse,
or music that can sing with skylight eyes
and hands that touch your heart. Ever so softly.

The mind is a curious creature,
building with sensitivities capturing contrivancies
of a foreign burst of language and turning
into a wet stain, or a bulging bruise,
or a frenetic cat running around the empty room.
See?

An eloquency does not necessarily derive
from a pocket book of phrasing.
Your heart doesn’t need a password
to access the wonder of a dream, no,
it just needs some shaking.

Gentle, and, at turns, a little more forceful.

I pointed and now I’ve made a point.

That’s the thing.