If we got down to brass tax. A collection of humanoids, drifting through the swings and pulls. No. Further down.
Mountain sides. Just enough grass growing, to call the mountain alive. A dead fish swimming, on the current side. Further down.
Caught up in another man’s emotion. We ride it out. Their peaks and valleys. Impractical journeys. Further down.
You have your own climate insidinside of you. Unscathed if you keep up with the rise. Left to overflow. Further down.
This is not about man or woman. You measure it up to divine will and erupt when things complicate you.
…a soft mouse crawls through my home. All is quiet.
I chase the moon, fool’s gold.
The sun is fading in the fall. The moon and night’s charisma whisper fabled stories.
I wonder if we all write calculated. Words fall through the cracks like dire warnings.
Something is here. I feel it more as I shed my weight.
Why must answers come knocking slowly? Then briefly parading?
I get it. You’re here. And everybody’s ready, and watching.
Prose
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