This relentless peeling of layers reveals sun-drenched motes of memory seeking to obscure the truth of experience past. A past that remains shrouded despite the straining of weakened inner eyes. A past that promises whispers of frivolity and lightness elusive enough in the present here and now to coax doubt into solid blinding masses of forgotten surety.
There is a hint of fragrance here that promises just payment in exchange for pain and resoluteness. Resolution remains alone and naked in a landscape capable only of hinting sparsely at a life lived well. Despite the starkness of this absence, resolution stands in defiance as a beacon to the only cadence worth clinging to. Blistered tips, peeling skin, and shattered nails seemingly the only fruits of this abandoning labor. This clinging a last gasp at grasping the deeper within that haunts when moon and shade combine to sing the slower lullaby of a sleeping wakefulness. Lumbering in groves of the razed and ill-conceived rights and righteousness of youth leaves weakened wanderers desperate for the care of any spring. To guard at all times exacts a cost that gravity collects, trouncing the hopes that breathing the heathers is possible in this world of probability and fear. The heathers are for dreamers still unmolested by the nail-biting news of the future to come. It is for those too few able to move through what chance and circumstance intend.
The salt spread on cheeks in waking hours becomes an unseen reef that weighs upon unnamed thoughts. This is nature in all her glory, absent when desired and all too present when inconvenience is all too appropriate. Thus denial becomes a staple of the healthy and smiling lines of projected shadows. The dream of Icarus wings becomes all the more beautiful and distant as the lumberer quickens the pace along the path to becalm the secret Minos kept. Has the winding rope taken on the quality of the path so well as to be lost beyond recovery? Let us hope it is not so, for that is all we have.
There is a hint of fragrance here that promises just payment in exchange for pain and resoluteness. Resolution remains alone and naked in a landscape capable only of hinting sparsely at a life lived well. Despite the starkness of this absence, resolution stands in defiance as a beacon to the only cadence worth clinging to. Blistered tips, peeling skin, and shattered nails seemingly the only fruits of this abandoning labor. This clinging a last gasp at grasping the deeper within that haunts when moon and shade combine to sing the slower lullaby of a sleeping wakefulness. Lumbering in groves of the razed and ill-conceived rights and righteousness of youth leaves weakened wanderers desperate for the care of any spring. To guard at all times exacts a cost that gravity collects, trouncing the hopes that breathing the heathers is possible in this world of probability and fear. The heathers are for dreamers still unmolested by the nail-biting news of the future to come. It is for those too few able to move through what chance and circumstance intend.
The salt spread on cheeks in waking hours becomes an unseen reef that weighs upon unnamed thoughts. This is nature in all her glory, absent when desired and all too present when inconvenience is all too appropriate. Thus denial becomes a staple of the healthy and smiling lines of projected shadows. The dream of Icarus wings becomes all the more beautiful and distant as the lumberer quickens the pace along the path to becalm the secret Minos kept. Has the winding rope taken on the quality of the path so well as to be lost beyond recovery? Let us hope it is not so, for that is all we have.
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