When times allow the pen moves against pages which resist just enough to take the ink in art form. Such a contradiction for written diction to be understood. Lead gets left in the contrail leaving tails and dots across the paper sky.
Airplanes fly now without evidence except the sound air. They text across the sky with wings that wage war against particles. I looked to see the past. The flight of words was gone before I knew what was said.
The stars write history and email them in light letters. The plane texts across the lines. I grab a pencil to keep up! I am from the past.
Out of Sound Mind 