Formless and afraid, but not really bothered

I flop onto pages and just write in the colours that come to mind.



Trickle, stream,

Over the stones

Wet the path you follow

As you hit your stride,

Sway side to side and cut your name.


Rush river,

To the sea,

Whirl the stones around

As you carve deeper,

Denting the landscape

Making a new place

Between surface and bed.


Bigger fish live in you now

With gaping mouths

As you reach yours

and thrash happy into sea.


Lines upon overlapping lines of expectation,

that tear the surface raw.

The same ingrained thought-pattern

makes a path so well-worn that,

even with the best intentions,

one remains Scaletrix-true to traditional stagnant shape.