Scratching shadow
Etching black on gray
Groping for boundaries
Limits
We press them
We address our questions
To no ears
But ours
Ours is the answer
The voice we hear
Resounds from our own
Stretched chords
A confusing caterwaul
From which we draw
That one thing
That something
To render reason
From an otherwise
Random run
The rest is just mess
Comments 1
I am glad to read your piece after a long time in mad page, I think. Regardless of questions and answers, I am happy to hear echo resound from the random run. And let it me mess dear editor! We are the mad after all. And creator is always mad and careless my dear Clay.