The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Monday, September 8, 2008


I listen
To the utmost prominent voices
Hearing their mere echoes of emptiness
While they whisper and beckon to alter my choices

I trust
This short-lived delegating and swaying
For the radiant core of my spirit is what they seek
As they cunningly reach inside me with an absolute fraying

I believe
My own choice still and repel the sly confusion
And sanction myself primarily with confidence and faith
Since everything else is residual dust of only the greatest illusion

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