The Lightning Man.

In life we beat out our time; knees bent, singing and dancing.
In death our spirit, reappears in human, plant and animal form, recycled; reborn.
In telling our stories; we move through the days and walk in the past.
We push up mountains and invoke the rain.
We cut our bodies; dress in leaves, oil and paper bark,
We paint our bones red with ochre returning to the womb from which we sprang.
Nothing has changed...all is as it should be.

My favourite flowers are dead; dried up by the sun, clutching the ***, the last of the lot; from whence the spring has sprung.

You shall remember the departed; shinning in the sun, adorning the ***, the best of the lot, from whence the spring has sprung.

Who are you to doubt your perfection, who instilled the idea that you are incomplete and that fear is healthy in all things; including your dreams and your beliefs.

Breaking news!
Donald J Johnson withdraws releasing a startled Boris Trump.

The desire for chemical relief, playful, wilful abandonment, stirring the ***, awakening the physical urge.
Both stripped back, longing for the oxytocin fix, the serenity of melatonin and the minds hush; as our bodies push.

Abstract writing;
Using figurative words with no objective.
Writing streams of consciousness, that simply documents a perception of the now;
without ego or restraint.

(((Just write now, and make sense of it later;
It will always make sense when you give it a title.
(((A label)))((( A meaning)))