Fragments of textures wait quiet behind brittle clusters of moss,

growing tension will rattle earth past far than the holders eyes.

Smile while that moss listens for the sunrise.

Intuition  of a beast on its knees.

Indian summer burns cold near november,

Storms will hollow and then will swallow all the sad songs from yesterday until tomorrow.

The one that takes, will it come in the plain of day,

or will it give us a running start and a break into clean waves.