Conifer-covered hillside in the hinterlands of this sleepy town on a warm day in this mid-June
The unspoilt soil neither grieves nor revels and there's no revelation in that- just what you see.
It's just what you see.
The quivering quakeys can't hack it even when they cackle- an attempt to unravel the shackles of their incomplete alchemy- cause it's never enough
one laugh is never enough.
The high's always flanked by a sunrise so rank as to wrinkle the brows of the loudest and proudest- the laughers and criers, or livers and die-rs
Just give me the bliss of the birds and a big lidless urn to retire my fire when the work week expires when I finally can see even truth holds some lies and when the sun sets too low to appraise the horizon, I'll fly.