30 letters, half of which
won't even make it to the page
the rest were written in a daze
moments of blinding clarity
interspersed with a stupor that
mostly hangs back in the shadows
but refuses to leave you alone.

The light is blinded by a mist
which cloaks the surrounding air
the footsteps move after the other
nobody can see, yet they forge
ahead, holding steadfast to faith
you walk at the very edge, just
taking care to stay on the right
side of nothingness; hope, faint
receeding hope flickering away.

They follow, they always do
but if you were to question them
they wouldn't be able to tell
they wouldn't be able to tell you why
hand them a pen, give them words
and yet they won't be able to write.

15 letters in a hand you wouldn't
now be able to recognize, words
written from a bygone age, and yet
two decades down the line
it is those which burn brightest
the truest poems are unedited
your thoughts spiralling out of
control, the wildest mess somehow
dresses itself into the calmest art.

- Avitaj

@dopamine @thegreymetaphor @raika_

Picture credit- Gontran Isnard

Je Ne Sais Quoi is French for "I do not know", an indescribable quality