STAGNANT INK

Assigning stagnant pools of ink,
Or remembrances of them,
She clamps down the gate
That reads “widening horizons.”
Like the tunnel painted On a brick wall
By a menacing coyote,
We can’t run through.
Perception clashes with reality
Like spots and stripes.
There’s more than what
You see, hear, feel, smell…
Description is not the answer.
Reflection on the abstract,
Thought on thought,
Feeds creativity.
You can only make from what you know,
And if you don’t know
How to really, truly think,
Then what can come out of you?
It is not enough
To observe or believe,
Follow commands or listen.
It does no good
To know the summary
Of a thing
Or even the thing itself
If that’s all you know.
To think is not
To reason and accept,
It is to form.
Thought is the first creation
And there’s none of it here.