"Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn."
brittle phalanx protecting
the fading hills of ancient purity,
an archway
into another age, where
spirits were a sort of susurration,
and clouds, watchtowers.
being here now,
the murmuring continues,
but the understanding
has long since
died away
The many and the much,
The chance to run, or touch,
The moment, and the place,
The heartbeat, with its pace,
The fabled and the few,
The everything to do,
The hammering of rain,
The cut against the grain,
The thunderstruck elation,
The time without duration,
The blending in the kiss,
The edge of the abyss,
The many and the most,
The hearts that’s overdose,
And go way past their fill,
Surrendering
And still.
A lot can happen in a moment
By chance, he saw her on the street
And flashes of a different time
When she was all, and everything,
Were seared upon his mind
In pink and pearls upon their bed,
Her blonde hair strewn around her head –
Then saw the street that he was on:
For she, just like their chance,
Was gone
What life is made of.
… today’s forecast calls for
fair-to-partly indifferent,
with a chance of afternoon apathy…
… is what should rather have been said.
alas, the daily forecast:
it’s big on generalities
but light on specifics.
if only traffic was so light,
or the rain,
or expectations.
but both light and lightness
are lacking,
one blocked by clouds, and
the other by
acedia
and this truck
