willowy enough for me?
experience etched out
of something whimsical
following a hard line
to catch the last breaths of
sunlight.
and i exhale.
you do too
i can't speak of destruction
with too soft a voice
sing strong even when the walls
are crumbling
he says i live beneath the dust and
dirt.
perhaps when the illusion of where we think we're going settles around us our contentment reaches a pinnacle in the depths of our heart. art and love seem to make sense of foolishness, of brut thoughts
1 comment:
Blue Heron road is a place that dissolves all hard, and the sun makes its way to the light, blond hairs of a cyclist's legs. Two Cyclists.
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