The farmer and the poet walk side by side. 
The wind is blowing and with every grain of sand approaching their skin, the kettle moves closer to boiling. 
The farmer with his miniature mule in his palm sweeps in motion with his other hand, the one with golden rings and chewed nails. 
He shows the poet that the land must be toiled. 
And sweat must mix with blood to form meaning to one's life. 

The farmer combusts into ashes over the poet and the untouched bloodless ground. 

There is no anxiety. 

The poet and the glassblower walk hand in hand, shoulders pressed closer, finding rhythm in each other's differences. 
Warmth and love shine from their portrait. 

And the poet thinks as he walks. 
The thoughts collapse and the glass blower breaks into sheets. 

Furthermore into jagged shards and then, into pieces too small for a human eye to see. 

With each step the poet contains his winces and his groans. 
Walking his every step, a moment closer to suicide. 

I'm aware this is temporary. 
The solution is permanent. 
Stay as permanence, pouring as warm oil from the eternal lion's mouth. 

I grow uncomfortable. 
Distance yourself and twist language. 
Pull yourself together.