brutal and sharp, vulnerable -
violet crocus against empty snow.
In this shining void
i can't seem to find the leak
much less determine if things
are spilling out or pouring inwards.
How much belief is too much belief?
Jurassic forest floors long since swallowed up
by waves of bleach-grained beaches,
overgrown trails winding through Autumn mountains,
remnants of leaves,
coniferous greens now umber, still scented like cold pine -
the language buried in campfire signals, ley lines and worn river rocks...
that deep and whispering code just at the edge of comprehension,
damp and ancient.
Smoke rises, lingering like a shadow,
a haunting dawn breeze, here then gone...
so much of the world already slipping away unnoticed.
For all things alike -
is but a sharpness in the void.
Tick Drip Tock Drop
Sidewinding somethings beneath the belly of day,
pieces falling out here and there,
a trail of broken sprockets...
stunted thoughts discarded like litter.
Easy to trace the path of destruction,
but impossible to determine
in just whose wake we seem find ourselves.