The Mote...pronounced Mowteh is a two line poem, any subject, no rhyme required, no syllable count.


Hair dripping profile bellow shaking the
ragged air, a morning yawn of deeper sleep.


~

Drape me across your forearm, a shawl of hair and
pigments of sky, I will lie when you sleep, catching your air.

~

Wooded palm of woman waking her clay pot children
under a changing sky of greens and storm.

~

Shapes of orbs shaking by your bellow: Faces
moulded from grates adoring your mouth.

OM
If inside I know where I am going, why do you insist I ask directions on how to get there?