Jan G. Otterstrom F.

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Strangers talking in my head, wake me
to an October tropic deluge, buried in
water, always looking for that, which is in
the next chapter, turning the soggy page
for one could surely die before tomorrow
are we not a thistle in a flame, they say
as I trust my life to faith, divine fate
oh put the words out of your mind
outside, abandoned waifs, metaphors
for the poor ever with us, other self
incoherent buzz that questions sanity
yet signs, signals in letters jotted in ink
waft of sentences, but not the words they
wanted to say, my voice drowning them
out, even though, they talk more intensely
cacophonous crowding of cerebral chambers
static stifling clear sense, to end the day.
c) Jan G. Otterstrom F.
    October 12, 2009
    In rain, Palmares