The Forgoing
If this unraveling is a friendly gesture, give me a moment’s breath. The silence goes on forever these spring nights and summer bitten days. I was and will be again but not with out a long cry. I feel it welling up inside me as speak the words like shapes fumbling out of my subconscious, they light you ears soft with minimal gravity. It’s alright. I’m sorry. This always happens, as if you could read between the line of carefully crafted labyrinths that even Watts would laugh at. I have the sun rises, it’s not that bad, they say you miss what’s different, and as so it’s the sunsets I miss. Like endless moments seamed through blinks and long breaths. Maybe I am still waiting picking failures over settling on anything else. I’m alright. I’m sorry. It happens more than I would like to admit. Bring me July with sparks in my eyes. Tragic gleaming lights. I would take it in stride, but now I am lashing out. Silent rage. Just to tourniquet the severed limb. Only to itch or tingle for years after severance to keep me from forgetting. What a silly allegory. There is just a deep breath and it will be summer, insatiable summer, and weary wrung soaking wet and sleep deprived winter will set in and I can fucking forget what is missing in the picture. I’m sorry, it’s alright, nothing time won’t sort out.
The process is simple. Rinse and repeat. The flaw is the action, what didn’t work should not work again if done over. I review; things are more likely to stay the same than they are to change. Shutter to thought. Click and process. Touch up and recolor. The audience will never understand. Like passion of the fall, may something greater take a drop of joy from all this knowing, and not fucking doing.
Dearest I leave you with this. My mind for a bit too much wine, all that glowed vividly is tawny brown with bloom in dreary colors poised like this butter cup spring. Bear me Russian winter for silique mirrored summer.
The process is simple. Rinse and repeat. The flaw is the action, what didn’t work should not work again if done over. I review; things are more likely to stay the same than they are to change. Shutter to thought. Click and process. Touch up and recolor. The audience will never understand. Like passion of the fall, may something greater take a drop of joy from all this knowing, and not fucking doing.
Dearest I leave you with this. My mind for a bit too much wine, all that glowed vividly is tawny brown with bloom in dreary colors poised like this butter cup spring. Bear me Russian winter for silique mirrored summer.