stars in daylight
it’s not they’re gone
voices still softly speaking
amid the blind noise
just as stones move underfoot
slow flotsam at forever’s depth
time’s echoing increment
the one idea of your life almost realized
the mountain crests like a breaking wave
—shadow cast upon itself
does not find more darkness.
O— how I wish I was making more sense.
There’re stories we live not reading
them or ever knowing
they exist.
Tom Driscoll Writing 