Thoughts Disperse Like Dandelion Seeds

All that has been, out-grows itself, becomes monstrous in a mouse hole. Thoughts pinned to carnival garbs hang under night’s pitch-dark tent to chew over minds missing links. The silence of wordless clowns mimes the shrill music of bats. In a dusty room, the hammer-struck face of a wall clock is a parody of my age for it is younger than the hands that hung it there. What great teaching unpacks this emptiness, is it ancient, or as young as the sleepless pad of my feet? Perhaps as in dandelion seeds, that act of their dispersal has planted yet more muted revelations. The dry rustle of mothwings --- a whispering of some yet other enormity one emerging now within a threadbare soul's deep-set pockets.