The world is a figment outside your window
Folks are ferried from future to past,
oblivious to their patterns of transience.
Fleeting glimpses of smiles and lives,
imagined impressions
Strange expression of ingrained ritual abound
The late night stories, numerous and varied
Even the times when no one is about.

No one? Untrue.
There’s a devil at the crossroads
He knows all about the blues.
Sittin’, watching with those wise eyes
that have such great charisma
and never seem to be any colour
in particular.
He sees the desperate driven
from past to future
and future to past
always rushing,
but getting nowhere fast,
eluding that happy medium
that state of inbetween
the here and now.
Where gypsy vixens serenade
by moonlight
and the devil sings the blues.

I have no idea when I wrote that. Or the type of mood I was in when I wrote it. All I know about it is that I did.
I often come across random pieces of ramblances, one off whimsies, bits of blithering. Some times I’m so far removed from the moment when I wrote them, it takes me some time to realize that it was indeed I who has penned this piece of poetry.

How delightful that is. To know that I can still surprise myself. How much hope that gives me for the rest of you to do the same.