Words on the wind.
Whispers in the sand,
they all tell me that
my words will mean something
to nobody.

A reassurance in the form
of a briar tree, long-felled
by a rusty axe.

Why rusty? I don’t know.
When I think of violence
I think of the colour brown.
I think of the taste of iron,
the taste of blood long
congealed in somebody else’s mouth.

The world is a box stabbed through
with the sword of tomorrow.

The world is a sword
wielded by a man
who is not yet born yet.

Infinite possibilities in the period,
in the comma. Everything ends
in the blank space
between two letters.

Between my ears is an empty gap
of memory.

Is there any good to being forgotten
as opposed to being remembered?

Meaningless, I tell you.
The world is as meaningless
as everything is.

The world is as full of meaning as you make it out
to be, like brushing dust off a long-parked car.

Where is the driver? Long gone
dead and buried.

Or on a long holiday – does it matter?

Someone is crawling under every table,
writing their memoirs on the undersides.

There is a poet in every carriage,
in the gap between every bus seat.

Liminal, liminal, liminal, liminal.
If you say it enough it becomes a litany.
If you believe in it enough it becomes a prayer,
a religion, a god.

I pray every day when I write
that someone will remember
what it means to be read, to
be seen, to become a resident
in some unnamed house,
where I will sit until
the end of time
or life, whichever
comes sooner. I reckon I will not know.

Freewriting Explanation: Every day, Valen shall use 5 minutes to write completely unprompted and uninterrupted, letting the words lead the way. There is no end purpose to each piece, but rather, the pieces are allowed to develop naturally in their own way. The pieces are then uploaded without edits.