Some thoughts come in giant stacks
of sentences,
and some in shorter lines
of words,
and some in sounds,
and images
of colors mixed with other
colors, and some others
come in single lines
of certain little
syllables.
And still,
the syllables resign
themselves to singing
silly rhymes
that never seem to say the things
the thought was really thinking.
But that’s what keeps them
singing.
And then,
there are some other thoughts
that sink
beneath the stack before
they ever have a chance
to come at all.