typed on this screen

the seed of this thought was born in the loneliness
of space

it's a recurring dream I have

I'm a little boy rolling down a green sloping hill
before that
I'm nothing

from there to here
from then to now
is the distance of uncountable miles and
uncountable years

all I have are the words typed on this screen
the rest of my life is
an illusion
an unfulfilled dream
the day to day faltering existence
of a monster pretending to be a poet

I came from nothing
and I'm still nothing

I'm not even that little boy rolling down
the green sloping hill anymore

© 2007 Jim Wittenberg

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