words

I am a qualia hunter; and words are my net.

I swing and grasp, straining to find the perfect sentence. Such that I can explain ’this’. ‘This’ to the person opposite me.

But the words slip by dissolving effortless through the net. Refusing to be bound.

Their joyful laughter fills the air as hunters rush round trying to creates lakes from rivers, castles from sand, reality from ink.

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem. But the world has already written it.