It will be.

I wait. Because I kNOw this will be huge. I am well aware that somehow someway at some specific time thats been destined to arrive sometime soon, I will arise, grab a an everyday box and words never before constructed this way. Words packing such deep meaning they were conceived in the black. See, I am certain. Like the wind in my face every day. Like my love for these words that are yet to arrive. Like my very awareness of my existence! I know! I am sure these words will come. But until then, I write about things not concerning. Concepts with no keys. Try opening nothing. Graze on the grass staring at the shut doors. It rains and these words wait out in it, drenched, cold, yet light as breeze. I write. Words that don't move mountains. They are descriptive of the inception of the volcano. I wait. Awaiting a start and waiting. Nail biting. La di da gazing. I wait. Nothing concerning enough. Every soul bleeding out humanity. But nothing. Not now, not then. Fingers tingle. Perspiring and I am pale. So I wait.

Gypsy.

Here I grow again

Leaving trails of me all over the “e”

Traveling with no passes

Hoping from your mind to mine

His and hers

Theirs and ours

Every so often I get restless

And I move

In search of what is to become me

My e-prints and I

Never truly settling

Hey, must be the gypsy in me

Here I speak again,

Yours, mine and the world’s, normadically,

-Omodudu