The boulders' slothful migration inched them down the hillside. They moved so slow you'd never know they were in leaden landslide.
everything is one thing. the way we are rivers. and all things are nothing; as takers are givers. i'm flow-er and flow-ee -- twisting as I'm drifting, not fancy or showy nor highly uplifting. just a leaf on a stream, bumping into others, gliding through a fond dream with sisters and brothers.
The festive fires were burning hot, too hot for their own good. They melted through the rocky ground just feet from where I stood. I stepped back, wondering whether the fire would burn right through the planet to the molten core making a jet-like flue to push the planet from its path out toward somewhere strange, and by the time the fire 'd frozen we'd be beyond home range. Then I realized that it was I who burned far too fiercely, and all this from my febrile mind was just thinking weirdly.
So long ago I remember events that weakened knees. My mind a haze, my heartbeat hard my soul eager to please. When I was moved by subtle touch, a gesture, or a tease. But now that I'm an older soul I've lost that state of mind, but wish the world would grant me yet one golden chance to find the return to that state of life, where love and luck are blind.
If you can't see the magic in a flower or a leaf, how can you see it in the work of some cutpurse thief? And if you can't see it in stars of a hinter night sky, how can you see it in the tricks -- a conjuror's slick lie? There's woe in where we find great awe -- those simple illusions. And what we miss reflects our keen everyday delusions.
Warm light filters through the window, killing the perfect night. The gravity of bed still holds - as eyelids deny sight. And life's order would wrench me out from under the cover, but for the allure and the bliss of my love, and lover. Why must the sun be on the march? Why must we heed its place, and surrender that entwinement - chest pillow against face?
I lie on the sloping hillside; damp grass tickles my neck. I hear the bleating beasts kibitz as dogs keep them in check. My eyes closed to the azure dome, until eyelids grow dim. I open wide to see the sky, and note that it grows grim. It's time to consult my sheepdog, "Should we beat it, or stay?" He barks to me, "Now can't you see, the clouds 're dirty wool gray?" "I see it clearly as my hand, but what does that shade mean?" "It means you're not a shepherd, and you may need the latrine."
In my dream, the city stretched out beyond what I could see. Colorful concrete pillbox roofs spread to infinity. Oh, such an infinite city must have some great allure. Miracles, mysteries, mayhem, and madness - that's for sure. What secrets reside behind those thick and dampening slabs? What unknown fortunes have been lost, that now are up for grabs? How many souls are lost right now? Panic starting to rise. How many will be found in time due to those spying eyes? There's some magic in this city, I'm sure that there must be. For everything can happen when you stretch to infinity.
An anvil crawls across the sky, of soft shape but steel gray, and I wonder when to expect the inbound tempest fray? When comes the lightening and thunder, the shaking window sills, the neck hairs standing upon end -- herald of lightening chills? Will it pass by rumbling distant or strike the local spire? Will it rain so hard that it puts out its own blazing fires?
I feel it coming, cyborg days -- locked into the machine. My program playing out the code of some new subroutine. To know it can all be dialed in, with such fine precision, the love and loathing that provide the root of all decision. And will I be a mindless drone on a robotic ride, seeing life like Doctor Jekyll while living as Mister Hyde?