An ever fleeting reality,
Too sweet to hold for long,
Gold honey,
Agave,
And sweet streams ever flourishing,
With Vision blurring at its edges.

The unease swims,
Amongst the seemingly clear waters,
We knew this was coming,
We meaning the person I believed myself to be and who I was at any given moment.

When the hare leaves its burrow,
Only to be returned by natural order
In all its physicality,
To which memory and tradition poured libation over a feast to the futilness of all new and old,
We are beauty to the blind,
Needless to all,
But artists and the dead,
Omit all hope,
Make love to the whorish nature of illusion,
And you will birth the most beautiful, still-born wisdom,
To the future of a ****** nation,
And the namesake of the forgotten love,
Born in ignorance,
Heir to the hare,
Blind to all but the burrow