Fresh crisp weather, brighter skies, life making its
rounds. It haunts itself; it relinquishes nothing, it takes existence. Oh for
favor, vying for her essence, rivaling myriad interests.
Gravel on earth, fantasy in stars.
Climbing steepness.
Fresh crisp weather, brighter skies, life making its
rounds.
To fall into trance, to ravish invisibility, sinking
into static.
Some semblance of artistry, seductive with chimes, a
porch filled with fireflies.
To desire some glint, to garner some light, losing
first flicker.
Bothered often. Unraveled shards. Pieces climbing to
build a picture.
Born to this ending, each going gently, that final
moment.
In wondering of legacy, demarcation, those in
portraits—waltz of persons, agile angst, to sip to no avail.
A spark, a deepness to it, churning inside, talking to
self, trying to walk towards easiness, compelled to dislike.
Uncanny canopies, naked honesty, a man will learn to
censor himself.
Some are cynosure—by rites & dreams, years
invested into artistries, making life difficult to exhale.
Indeed, why?
When most are alike to x, & one is far removed
from x, life must be rethought out time & again—it is given depth, it
becomes complex.
It can’t be a fairytale each round.
Fresh crisp weather, brighter skies, life making its
range.
