the edge of green,
egress — conscious permission
of some inundation or cataract
and the raucous facelessness
of passing figures. army melancholia
in situ — past greens of dread
and red, some blue of course (in
dapple of sunlight bordering
sublimities)
i submit to its silence and no longer
ponder its requisites. draped
by fog, helm of pines. the zigzag of
deliverance swindling the disposable
line of fast-paced time-hover.
there's no god here. only the
wind, the trellis surmising a component
of nothing and happening,
and all ephemera cycling across
seasons forever changing and their
obsolescence of ways to retain their
positions until air frizzles
no
longer
than a bated breath.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
the edge of green,
egress — conscious permission
of some inundation or cataract
and the raucous facelessness
of passing figures. army melancholia
in situ — past greens of dread
and red, some blue of course (in
dapple of sunlight bordering
sublimities)
i submit to its silence and no longer
ponder its requisites. draped
by fog, helm of pines. the zigzag of
deliverance swindling the disposable
line of fast-paced time-hover.
there's no god here. only the
wind, the trellis surmising a component
of nothing and happening,
and all ephemera cycling across
seasons forever changing and their
obsolescence of ways to retain their
positions until air frizzles
no
longer
than a bated breath.
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