A blowing wind of second thoughts
Like silky wisps of cotton candy fading
Or mercury with no simmering day to discuss
Slipping my grip like dappled sunday shading
 
Vagaries considered peripherally
Ghosts dripping stones in thoughts evasive
Heating an ancient tribal soup
In a swirling vat of knowledge invasive

Shuddering on frozen breezes
Like freezer-burn frost sucked into lungs
And clinging to lips that kiss hot panic
Enveloping the terror of insanity's tongue

Slip rippling the fingers of not-quite-thoughts
Through the half-braided hair of mind over matter
Seasons and days on another lost calendar
A pattern of months irreparably shattered

Fragmented figments
In a finger-paint stream of dreams and delusions
Where all that is certain is a certain lack
Of anything nearing a foregone conclusion

While thoughts like gusting winds
That scatter leaves and somehow still the air
Tease my mind with a complete lack of mercy
And then suggest they were never really there.

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