This is called Practice.

And the World has yet to End.

The blue bar blinks, beckoning.
Blipping a message, not in dots or dashes.

But flashes. Flashes of words and messages I really want to say but maybe it’s true when they say that the trouble with secrets is-
But I’m not here to talk about that. Let someone else speak of the wise man’s fear.

Not why I’m here. Not why I’m here, I’ve spoken all secrets I can remember to mine, to one I’m loving better and one I’m learning to revere-

Someone once told me I should do spoken word.

I give thanks that they do not know, have not heard; Words can well, swell tidal, strong as a riptide wave, current curl.

I give thanks that they do not feel, are left dearth; Lines curled into knots, uncaring, burst. If stumbling steps and a search for sense in characters condensed carry style, well then-

It is floundering, it is flailing, art perceived is incidental as much as intentional-
I was going somewhere with this.

Right.
This is practice.

A splayed display of tactics theatric for the catharsis of my brain.
Silent yet spoken reminder to explain.

That the milk was spilt with little dismay.
That the world still turns on its way.

Said what I had to say.
And the Earth.

The Earth has not died today.