The mind is a grey wasteland when in view. A land full of waste? Waste is thrown away, but of what does it exist?
Thoughts from the mind, once used. Almost solipsism, for they are yours alone unless by some miracle we may read each others' thoughts. Better to cope with only one direction, selfishly.
This writing's selfish as it pleases me to write. As children, we are taught to share and then we learn about the tug-of-war. A favourite toy envied by another child. 'Give me.' 'I want.' 'No.' 'Yes.' 'Mine.' 'You may hold it for a minute.'
When I read my verse aloud does it remain in your memory for only sixty seconds or can the clock be rewound joining other words?
There is a portion of the brain which stores in absolute. Wasteland revisited, but where to dig? Which implement to use? A fork, a spade. Turnings are forked sometimes to cul-de-sacs. Spades, one of four: a club, a heart, spade, diamond. The latter gleams and conjures up the suit of cards with the Red Queen shouting, 'Off with his head!' Is she also searching for that distant wasteland? Are we all looking for The Truth? Does Life have meaning – not a wasteland, then. For the first time dawn seeps through the grey.
Perhaps we need to value life and what evolves. We now see through a mirror darkly and should take heed from The Lady of Shalott who tried to pierce the gloom and died because 'the mirror cracked from side to side.' She is remembered floating on the the barge.
There is again that river of our dreams conjuring up so many poetic lines. For pleasure I will once again read T.S. Eliot's "Wasteland", always in my mind. April is the cruellest month. . .