Stinging thoughts converge and take aim.
They are sly and cunning.
Silent in their advance, they entangle the ankles.
Slither over and around, tighter and tighter.
Sunshine brushes the table, so close but distant,
hazy with blurred edges.
Are thoughts trustworthy and believable?
Depends on the day, according to the fine print
at the bottom of the human contract
written in invisible ink.
Good luck finding the damn thing.
Smack on this, a woman shouts, and I concur.
Weathered Well 