Half-thoughts

Publishing an old draft from the archives:

Rogue half-thoughts float around

in the mushy grey of the dark hollow;
Parts trying to severe from one
and bind with another;
Trying to find form, fuel, and breath.
Plenty bleed to death in soft wombs
cut by jagged edges of ill-formed words;
or choked by the monstrous fist of fear
Some are born, a dense mass, quiet like death,
But they gain, they form, they become whole.
And when they learn to speak,
they whisper into my ears;
They change my course.