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Timbre nigh,
a word flies,
carried across voids unseen,
a sad sigh, a cheery high,
Timbre nigh,
passes by close,
I hear, I pause,I know.
Timbre nigh, Timbre nigh.
I smile. A little lost, a little found.

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paper fibres that twinge, sing, twirl
all round each other, holding on for dear life, for what if one tunelessly tore, the bridge for words is swept away, broken by the swift flowing waters of an incessant life with time sniping away at its heels. Time, that doesn't heed feelings and love, always in a rush, a push and a shove down into a cosmic abyss.

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Swirl in some pink,
add green vibes,
wooden carve thoughts,
slow as a snail,
crawl into crevices small,
Alice-like, hit the ceiling,
forbiddingly tall,
stay then tiny,
wretched whiny,
sweep a look,
fall for truths,
hook, line, sinker.
I, meanwhile, with word worlds tinker.

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I spun the night into a yarn ball,
stars, ghosts sticking out,
an occasional planet of thoughts,
a naughty elf, thereabouts,
I told the world to buzz off,
painted golden a new dawn,
flying off into quantum realms,
catching my breath,
all is well.

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