We
explore it so often, absent to exploration, and waiting for freedom.
It’s
an intimate lifestyle, somewhat compelling, to feel it shift. We pace
to
sit still, rocking steadily, to treasure the vibration. We’re not so
absent,
to seal the texture, to rill the tempo. It streams—a present world,
to
jot a passage. The deepness is pressure, for concentration, to touch
something
elusive; in which a landscape—is burgundy fire, for
shimmering
topaz. Trees rest in silence, to wrestle gravity, while shedding
leaves.
It’s quite deciduous, as are the lows, skating through blank winds.
We
trek terrain, a bit distant from self, due to overcast; where temperature
screams,
in inlet tongues, to excavate caves; whereat are scars, for
terrifying
mirrors, where it’s not so deciduous; for seasons come weekly,
to
grab a vat, to play pretend with self. The stomach aches. The eyes
churn;
for wherefrom such an entity; to raise wit suddenness, to deal the
cards,
for blackjack fevers? The flowers are groaning, to wilt from
sullenness,
to wither in hopes. Earth is blocked in, as cubed as logic,
falling through winds;
where essence drips, to uplift a fog, to grip a feather.
