Streams & Caves

There’s a presence, ever adrift, poking, pulling and

praying. But cards were dealt, where lives have become

concrete. Such to appease is madness, a fairytale,

something suited for fancy. We leave such things afar,

psych to psych, studying our very souls. I remember

such friction, a dormant nova, and fragrant chills. But

life has twist and turns, churning reality, a fist full of

daisies. How could it be, a turquoise rose, ever fond of

stress? I ask, in converse—an orpine tear; for reach is

multifaceted, an ontic saxophone. We danced so shallow,

where night featured tales, and metric laughs. What is

want to begin? I utter, nothing,—streaming through

verbs. But thought is Tao, ever alive, reaching for fancy;

and so brave to capture—an urn of light, and what to

give?