Nobody Left to Notice.
A shadow falls over a pocked hillside.
You wouldn't know its' pits
or sweeping gouges
lest you whittled them yourself.
The sun can bound its' way o'er the 'scape
and shine its' finite rays every which way
but Golden Hour only hits when you're blinking.
Bereft of the breadth
and deaf to the depth.
Pristine with no inkling
Of that whimsical wavelength
when my spirit is winking
You wouldn't know its' pits
or sweeping gouges
lest you whittled them yourself.
The sun can bound its' way o'er the 'scape
and shine its' finite rays every which way
but Golden Hour only hits when you're blinking.
Bereft of the breadth
and deaf to the depth.
Pristine with no inkling
Of that whimsical wavelength
when my spirit is winking