Poetry by Rowan Evans

Thoughts.
Rapid-fire fragments.
Electric. Static.
Nothing whole.
Pieces. Flipping channels.
Incoherent.

Yet—moments slow.
Threads of you slip through.
 Then they bounce again.

Twisting.
 Turning.

Nothing ever sticks.
 Channel flips.  Sparks fly.

Vision blurs.
 Vision fades.
Not asleep.  Not awake.

Caught in this liminal space.
Threads linger.
  Faint.
   Flicker.

A signal in the static.
Am I calm, or about to panic?

I reach. I grasp.

Trying to catch thoughts.

Elusive.
 Butterfly.
  Moth.
   Flame.

In-between.
 Sane.
  Insane.