Jet is always black

This is no treasure map,
nothing to hide
but
the words that are hidden
somewhere deep down inside.
No trinkets or jewels for fools
to spend lifetimes in search of,
just the words, some like birds,
release and they’ve flown.

I spout like a fountain or
groan like a mountain that’s dying,
yet in the trying out which is what it’s all about
I grow.

We may reach for the sky but won’t touch it
unless we try to imagine it’s just another surface
to float on, take a boat on and sail on or sink under and
fail on.

The treasure I find in the moves of my mind
are as precious to me as any memory can be
and any memory can be the map.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.

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