Consciousness asks what itself is
A solipcyst to poke, prod, and try to know
Of pain it wonders why
Of reason it sings and scries
Wondermelt from wandercrusts
Figure eights in rifted dust
Blood flows through a body
Even at rest
While cracks appear in tectonic minds
As wishes for relief from volcanic dreams
Heartsongs tinkle at chickadee pace
Loosely sprinkled on crinkly face
Calm laughs light into a valley
Whose indentation resists the sally
I saw a symbol in daylight mist
And wondered dimly what its portent
Made up muck luck by the book
Writ in shaking handed prose
Quiet poems might set us free
Unfetter thread twain thought and glee
Roman Ryan 