Life contains so little—to express so much. Old and complicated souls, easing passed a breeze, uncured spirits. Loving to see her dance, albeit, too painful to sustain. Resting upon a pillow, counting ceiling cracks, breathing deep and shallow breaths. Is life ever enough? Finding passions as we do; measured in thoughts. We could never be so distant, easing into apathy, teasing our minds to believe some fantasy. Young and complicated souls, carving oaken wood, disputing each koan. It wasn’t what it seemed like. Trees filled with leaves, having a time seeing small branches. An achy soul, quantum sensation, leaping into silence. If days weren’t foggy—it wouldn’t seem like what it isn’t … hectic arsenal, complicating horizons, secerning many myths. All out ashes, palming parts, disbelieving it wasn’t sunrise.
