It begins with an emptying.
Pushing aside all the clutter and letting it fall to the floor.
For clutter there is.
The world it seems, is greedy
to consume every spare grey cell,
firing each one to a frenzy,
excitement without purpose,
a wall of noise
dedicated to keeping yourself
You would think emptying easy,
but there is effort in it.
The world has done its work well
and what should be the easiest thing possible,
becomes the seven labors of Hercules.
Still, that is what it takes.
You let the silt settle after the storm.
and the last thing you see,
the last remaining thought, the survivor,
becomes your poem.