What if logic isn't the most logical after all? What if it could trap us into a way of thinking that ruled over the sub-conscious, and the conscious mind? What if the laws of nature were broken? How would we know? What if the laws of man were broken? How could we tell? What if the most illogical thing could change logic, as a thing? Is logic just an idea, to rule over all ideas?
He's tending the garden. Earth on his hands Sweat on his neck. Sprinkling seeds From freshly spent flowers. I can't see his eyes behind his Ray Bans But I know they're focused, delighted Observing the occupants and visitors In his cultivated oasis. To keep the garden nurtured, protected, is critical. He worries when the storms roll in. How will they fare? But he does what he can. He rids the area of weeds And cares for slender stems. It's a promise kept To tend and till.
I hate the winter not a single bone unchilled trapped in my blanket warm but lonely the outside veiled in white, reminds me of death white with mist, not with snow
I hate the spring it is far too cheerful like a façade, or a satire luckily it's quiet short even God wants it to go away because joy never stays
I hate the summer it feels long and distant it is loud and real, cold and brutal The noisy cicadas hollering in the hazy air and asphyxiating youth out there and no blanket to trap myself in I just hate how alive it is
Though I do enjoy myself in the company of Autumn The carcasses of fallen leaves And skeleton of the trees It is pretty It is silent and the occasional rains to put out the fire in me Everything resembles the colour of my skin I don’t get to see that often I wish the cycle of seasons ceased at this point Early Autumn Brown Forever