Your head waits for your heart

Thoughts, always growing, untamed. Shower then with symbols, spiritual light. Cut and comb the loose ends.

Thoughts, reappearing, branching into movement, saturating every stillness. Roots, stubborn, connected to currents that travel unmapped, inside breath and blood.

Leftover thoughts. Edging along the outside, quiet, always waiting. Between intent and creation. Curved into the shape of what follows, lingering in the fullness of the not-yet-named.

Thoughts. Discarded, but not lost. Not false, but misunderstood. What can be owned is never complete. What is missing is always contained in what was never there.

The answer cannot be discovered by filling in the blanks.

What’s wrong? Tell me—
is there ever a short reply?
Nothing will suffice.