magbhitu

Words pour down on the plain. A scree of sonnet boulders raked with pentameter and fluid dynamics. Bricks for Babylon these words. Each an iridescent scripture jewel tended (perhaps) by an austere abbot of necessity. Shaped hadrons or centerless aggregates? It is for you to decide - whether the world has a voice, or is just some hen with pebbles in her gizzard. Whatever you think, the words will still rain down. Guttering endlessly like hail in a creek ditch forming sentences by accident chanting reluctant sentience from thickets of memory. They will keep coming these words inexorable as lichen spreading its marriage