What do I have but old age
a dramatic entry to stereotypes
accumulated languages of dead trees
flying fish caught in sandstorms.
Days advance carrying experiences
arriving at terrifying surprises
I don’t have a key to the house
outside I stand in a thunderstorm
do not hide, shrug your fear,
I say to myself,
spread your hands in jubilation.
Is it reality or fiction?
I’m looking for poetry of fresh languages
a balance of “dread and beauty”
full of spice and promise.
Can I be a time traveller
be a “native of the mind?”