off a little, in the distance, comes a pattern strange and bold; by the time we understand it, it is gone, and we are old. "off a little", so they tell me: people steer around, away -- maybe i'm not off that much, just on some other world or day
we wonder, don't we, all the time, for wonder's free, and pointless, much like riding cardboard boxes down an ivy colored hill, where once the answers strung like christmas lights that pointed to star, and not a bar, so there you are. and maybe i'm a little off my point, but but points are painful when we sit or stand on them, and so find cushions in your truth, and let a little bit of ice be just enough to cool your drink, not too extreme, around the temples that we keep our minds within.
