A soliloquy
a dream,
an inability to relate time
or at least it seems
I think of strawberries
I think of mint,
I contemplate
being relevant
It’s relative
It’s near
but I can’t grow thyme,
though my garden is lush
in it’s soul refreshing prime
We build temples
to dandelions
and briefly we seize,
a whisper of the intangible
an existential breeze
Blown to freedom
eventually we coalesce,
through the vastness and obscurity
into a potent corporeal yes.
Rexxisms 