a tall glass quenching
the thirst of the night

skimming the tops
and bottoms

open to interpretation,
insemination
of the mind

individual perception,
your own,
the only,
one.

with music clowning and bouncing,
feeling and fleeing

the colors separate themselves,
but do they
rejoin?

murmurs, silencing the evening. Questioning, beyond all other things, the juxtaposition of perception. Placing fear within thought, and freedom within the current fantasy's cage. Its time to undo the strands tying us apart.

the combine working on me,
R.P Mcmurphy,
slowly crumbling my edges,
leaving me dull
and intoxicated.

the combine hunting me,
a man,
a man seemingly without place or plan,
no correlation of my destination

a man, hard to track,
hard to break down,
a man,
a free man.

the sounds of their machines
make it hard to see,
let alone breathe.
More specifically,
for a man like me.
You know the kind,
with his roots separate
from the leaves.

A man
you never truly,
see.

a single crow, perched atop the branches
-in elegant prose

entertain the though-
your not as special as you think,

just another chain,
but less,
a single link

turning thought
in glorious blunder
just another

stick in the mud
a fly in the butter