The unravelling of the pause which loosens the knots that bind the soul to the stem letting the sap flow to those tentacles that have reached out too far. It speaks to the morning air just as it has allowed itself to be soaked in the sun.
Morn is not the promise of morn. It is
the calamitous beginning that ends the night which held the promise of a new morn.
It is repetitious in surprise and a bit expensive.
The buds of mirth that are opened up ever so slightly, reminder that the flow of sap inside is as vital as daylight. It behoves the tentacles to attend now to the ever so tentative call to worship.
When the saving is done and the sad song over
the blood of faulted generations will want to sing
in tune with yours Whether the accord henceforth
be in harmony or not depends less on circumstance
than on the twist of word that grinds the corn that
dries the sweat.
When the music stops that is when it begins to play
The rhythm is not one of your choice but one that
follows the twist of words that mauls the mood that
fits your today in their yesterday and so it is so it is
Choose in accordance with this harmony and hence
forth shall be fine.
When the rough is smoothed the sky will want to
shine a little more sky blue and the sun will dare to
shine with that extra bit of something that only the
sun can bring to day The rough has not really
smoothed has it but let the sky and sun shine on for
it is daytime now.
The yellow days give grist to a daft proposition sitting
somewhere quietly counting the sins accumulated over
Sins that could safely have been tucked away in the aftermath
nooks under the silent shadows of noise and rumble.
There is thus a requisitioning, a need for requisitioning, of remaining open to the
steady numbing of senses required for the regurgitating of sin.