My poetic dream has rhythm of a newborn child
with his life so temperate and depending on the
favored winds and season
and continuity of theme worn out and fluid within
happy in its first cries and innocent
and spoken on his mother's breast his first love his nourishment
his quest is to survive like every gnat or fly or
word
that seems to seek what is best for him or her or I
and keeps on throughout this orbs revolving a brand on all living life we share with yellow grass and dogs with creatures we have never seen that
rely on mother natures schemes that feeds with rationality
and sacrifice the weak.
I seek to think man is just a head above, on two limbs, but always get knocked down, to thinking that we aren't much better than wild.