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there is some bottom to these depths;

there is some bottom to these depths;
i wonder if they follow my words,
or i follow theirs?

what follows
if not following
what draws
but inks,
leaving tints
about what may,
what june;
i follow these and hope
they wallow in themselves
so i may, afraid, away,
walk in thought around
and leave no impression
of the sole,
merely follow
and forgottten.

i wind my time in wanderings of the self,
though selfish that may be, i
find myself through these times,
and hope to be in them one day,
instead of looking out;
as though a mountain in movement
of the rushing rock,
held but caught in constance.

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musings & scribbles