And,
Which way shall we go,
On this fork?
All roads lead to Rome.

'And,
Are we going to Rome?'
She asked.

Yes,
We shall stand,
A-top the Pantheon,
And look through the little hole,

Like the Gods we aren't meant to be.

I think,
Maybe
thinking is too,
Surreal for me,
floating out
of my head, deep,
in thought
I should get a
rush,
but,
it's just the,
dull breeze,
of another
word.
Dull, boring,
freak of nature;
normal, twisted,
act of God.

Shoes dissolve
doors crumble at their close
air is liquid in the palms
of River.
Why does God,
act in her pool.

Knocking on hardrive,
Carressing the
page;
Paper and prose feel,
real, least surreal,
in our arms.