Journaling

He wrote poems that were indicative of blueberries soaked in vinegar. He wrote of the shadows between light and dark, but mostly he counted the gray hairs of thinning memories. The more he wrote the more crippled his dreamscapes, he began to word-paint an unprintable oblivion. Snow keeps falling. Ink turns to an Indigo mud, a smeared script meandering through a white blank-face. Archaeologist have fallen asleep in his bones. A transient darkness pours through one eye and out the other. The light he speaks of is the end of a lit cigarette in an unlit room, the curling smoke keeps on writing.