The Weirdness
A Weirdness not in dreams
brushes against my waking mind,
impressions delineated not by words,
cloaked not in meaning accessible
to conscious thought,
but lurking in a penumbra,
neither darkness nor light.
I call it the Weirdness,
for what other name can it claim?
It's a thought that is not,
an idea that is not,
a mere suggestion of something,
a smudge against my brain.
What? You have never experienced this,
like a kiss
blown but not caught,
like a smile
smiled but not seen?
Am I the only one?
In an instant it's gone
and, try as I may to find
a word, a thought, an idea
to stick as a label to my Weirdness,
I cannot: what I thought were words
were nothing of the kind,
just the mind making believable
the transient ghost of a thought,
a thought now naught.
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