I swallowed a well,
full of ink
and my tongue is tickled
by the inward voice
sloshing around restlessly
inside this belly
of soul's discovery
I'm trying to spit messages on wind,
but my words catch the edge
of a hummingbird's wing
who rapidly hums back-wards
in incomplete sentences
that seemingly move forward
through reversed poesy
Spritzed by the inconsistent breeze
of a childish mirage
that my soul swallowed an ink well
instead of acknowledging the verity
of what really stirs inside this belly
is a quiet, but insightful me
