Wayward Wynds

There are whens, when the muddle has cleared and outpourings of the wyrlds within, come to scribble about the muses I see, whyrling through noisy roads

and I must STOP to dabble and babble like water over stones.

 

I do not pretend these oracles. But finally, I arrive too, and with no more sorrow, see that a rare, precious few may hope as I do, the places we walk together.

 

This haphazard place waits for these loops of time space and rewrites, of ponderings and wanderings that remember to weave essentials from my Clairesense.