|Phillip Island, Melbourne|
This isolation that enwraps me in a crowd. Holding me captive. Exiling me from the world. Or the world from me. An incarceration. That turns into an armour. Occasionally.
This desolation that fills within me. Volatilizing and then raining down on me. Soaking me. Drenching me. Seeping into my depths, empty them as I may. Relentlessly.
These heaving surges that crash against my shores. Dissipating me. Into umpteen pieces. Drowning bits of me. Carrying them away. Far away from me. Irretrievably.
These thoughts that storm into me. Whirling my emotions. Dashing them on the ground. Filling all my spaces. At last dwindling down to a word. Just a word. Irreducibly.
This word that remains. Unread. Unheard. Uninterpreted. Glare and bare, scream and shout, decipher and decode as I may. This word that’s me. Quintessentially.
A word falls apart
Syllables stray unspoken
Sounds hang together.