Babble Poem by Thomas Adams

It has stolen the light of the night
for me to hint of its presence along my side.
Twisting and turning and gnashing.
Carving it's personality into path. It flees.
If it were to have a destiny, it would be a secret.
And if it were to reach it, It would simply begin again.
Never stopping. Never stopping. Relentless! Foreboding!
Needling every inch of ground forward, to no prize.
A gift that invents and desires it's own heavy burdens.
And I, along my way do stop to witness this turmoil.
A moonlight struggle. The thrashing in desperate battle-on.
I am not in kahoots with my most recent companion.
Nor am I the least bothered by my own viewing.
What sources this, this energy.
Not unlike my own heart as a miracle.
A thing to hold tangibly yet no visible sum to why it hums along.
Just it's monument. It's signature. It is always the same in my life.
And later it may appear different to you.
To me it is a blessing. A mechanical marvel.
With all of the greatest of things to accomplish upon its journey.
It is the beast of its world. In control of all that is less.
And to it's witness, It is what has calmed me, here.
Alone, fortunate to behold these melodic maneuvers.
And to with it alone, I am enchanted to sit.
I am invited to dream.



Thomas Adams
The Poetaster Sept/2013