I have no roots –

only memories.

Present becomes past before my eyes

Life is lived, recorded there, somehow,

More or less imperfectly inscribed

Within my head, thus stored behind my brow.

These things exist for me, just in my mind,

For if I try to seek them out again

There’s only ever something new to find:

Nothing in the stillness can remain.

I have no root...

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If I could take the thoughts you most like to think

And sculpt them into text that speaks to you as art,

If I could take the feelings you most want to share

And mirror them in words, reflected in your heart,

Then would you more easily forgive my selfish pen?

Excuse the vacant looks, the lost half-hours when

I am not yours, as I wander some distant mental shore?

If you liked my...

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