Fearful cows. Proud buckets. Sequestered and barbed. Three freckles. A constellating of anchors. Violating space. The long road travelled and the long road ahead. Each length, perfect reflection of the other. You are travelling as a mirror. Roving. Violating time. Swallowing hours. Draped. A shroud of volition. The sky is still crying. The sea is angry. You hear it sometimes, underneath the wind’s wails. It can hear you. Sometimes. But always it sees. Violating mind. What it sees sends sun to sky and turns rain to tears of joy, collected in proud buckets, that drizzle down, dousing the faces of fearful cows.
Green, long grass. Fields tamed by stone walls Fences twisted by stray twigs. Breeze that brushes through Cows' ears and lambs' wools Strokes my hair as I stare With glee knowing that we Are joined by this same sensation.
Perhaps they avoid stepping on bluebells And then regrettably flatten buttercups like me. Might they not step on the cracks between stones, As I do not step on cracks between drains?
We share the same fear as other humans approach, Ready to flee if they come too close. For they could be the death of us Or we the death of them. Once this fearful distance is breached What will happen then?
Cinnamon winters the rolls. If my past childhood memories serve me correctly. Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow leaves a sweet kiss behind. My lips follows, with an expected sigh. To again taste one of many... the many tasty treasures left behind by the Elusive divine. In that very moment; where the sweet cinnamon lubricates my feisty lips. All is ******* history. Isn't it? And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure with many sinful bites. Smoked a cigarette afterwards. There was a no smoking sign. Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix. On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived. a few crumbs in its wake still exists. Confusion is typical of this kind of ish. When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.
Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014 by Claude Robert Hill, IV.
Consciousness pouring out of me disguised as words. I am craving cinnamon rolls.