She, is that flower unopened,
in quieter moments,
she washes him clean,
a theme behind secrets
unspoken,
not of ether, nor clay,
but of somewhere between.

He, with his pallid complexion,
loves nothing of Earth,
even less of the air,
for all that are given
direction,
are places or houses
that she cannot share...

"Helmets back on"

sighed, Fox to The Owl

"the lock-down is lifting,
they're coming back out...."

It comes in easy

this
espadrilled hegemony
that nibbles through
the idle clag
of unimportant
words...

the first
acerbic adjectives
drag sadness to these surfaces....

run, tampering, with dials
of a slow,
                   unworldly,
                         progress.....



enrolled
b­etween their  cursive loop,
we live a life in service
to these no-uncertain terms.....

was a costly equanimity
I scavenged from the wars...

a lifetime spent, inventing ways
to close revolving doors...

yeah,
locked-down
but loaded,

got me
go-to beats
of Thievery



..... ain't no such thing
as too much sunshine.....



Snowed-in by
the blue-sky walls

apparently
the coast is clear......

time redefines reality
and drifts on outta here....

You remove the joy
then as sure as endings
faith will follow..

It takes time to beat the boy
the young can mend,
are resilient
but persevere
the cracks will
widen.

Fill that space
with fear,
shame
ridicule,
despair

let that
fatten.

Marinade
in isolation.

There you
have him.
Have him
beaten...

So kick him out
as Man.
Out
into the plan-less
waste of living,

Then watch the fruit
of all achievement
cast from your
own spiteful holding

rot beneath
the tree
from which
it fell....