torn free from the ground of pregnant ideas and withered internal dialogues.
aloof in the face of destiny, crying for refuge among the disowned, the dismembered, the disinterested. i alone exist in the maelstrom of abstraction crafted painstakingly through my ages and seasons.
a mind as sharp as mine to raise me without feathers and place me among the mulch.
i blanket my canvas with woes and worries alike, neglecting the foul-mouthed begotten son arranged among the pillars left standing.
crooked trees and iced stone to vibrate through these ears of clay.
i miss the days of youthful ignorance and exuberant hope shot at my future like a cannon of pride and confidence.
today the final summer flowers exhale notes of sweet becoming, ever mingling with the hum of nature's eternal embrace. the bodies celestial in ambiguity spin and swirl in irrevocable sincerity. from rise to fall, through night and naught, the world recurs again to weave itself anew.