Fiery sparks of accidental meetings
the archaeologist and writer become witness
creativity an illusion, writing pure impulse.
At the end an empty hand
pulls me into the dark depths of life.
I thread my way through the maze,
running from the Minotaur.
My bright pink bicycle with multicoloured streamers,
Velveteen slippers splotched with ungrowing flowers,
the green moss of comfort.
I lie down with paradox in fields of daisies.
Vibrating truth musical glimpses
pull me into the dark depths of life.
At the end, an empty hand.