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Perspective

Reticence, whispers caution the breeze steeping this precipice in the risk of falling prey to gravity, this matter is not a light one, no, sees he who leaps regardless - always headlong but never short of the mark yet the earth is optimistic in the weighting; since chance is only a matter of time, watching this grain of insignificance eventually reacquaint with its maker in due course, errs on the side of patience, this point the true source of uncertainty.

i(i) wolf. and, there's an unexpected current, wolf sniffing at the way these walls undress it absently at the door, searching in the cracks like fingers adrift - when since this state of satisficing slips as if your time depended on the wild water seeping home, as there's a follicular harkening to a shade of grim moon, known for that worn hope cast off like bared shoulders / when cold are the wolves murking cumulonimbly along road, passed through somewhere. it's time. when that weight ever settles in, threatening life to a point while regular introspection calls of a light you've outgrown. now over there, it does pick at thoughts and mist.

wolf ii.

there's a wolf at the door. sniffing at your current state of undress, cold seeping through the cracks while fingers pick absently at follicular introspection - it's that time. the moon calls wild, regular and ever unexpected since time slips now like weight / like water off shoulders, bared grim and worn to a point of light cast over thoughts adrift cumulonimbly, harkening to a shade of home passed somewhere along the way. you've outgrown this road, searching for hope in the mist that settles, satisficing as if life depended on it, as it does when there's a murking outside these walls, known and threatening an in, when there are wolves.

Sunset

ties in the back, see

how this sits (the contrast) - a stand-

off, your dark look in this light, our

twisting wrists and

the stillness of a held hand

caught unsuspecting.

before it hits. it's

a tangle, how you feel

how i feel

we feel

some type of way, pushing

against walls and each other

until something gives

or rips, or transforms/mutes

the way our bodies stare

like a threat, how these lines lie

up front then fall to the floor

under scrutiny.

Sunrise

tired as

being all for everybody, but me? dreaming of the youngest lost and dead asleep in this self-made bed, cold feet and sheets untucked with a subconscious scuttling like spiders in an open mouth scream for help - this could be a sign - if only one could read into this, a little deep for liking, but when now is a smudging of nights into days, what sense can be made by reading a portent in this life imagined other than it's equal parts too long and not enough.

delicious fish bone soft 'til

cartilage snags flesh sharp

edges barbed it borrows deep

like a breath held

like light caught

like the moon hangs

on every word would one

weaker cling as water on a lip willing

Rip/tied

could be lost, a body of liquid feeling to float this dream - like drowning but for a lone buoy giving distant rescue, rough yet optimistic enough to reach towards / hope's a sensation that comes in waves, surging peaks and the gasping realisation of a severe lack of edges, this life shaped by whatever container it's been found in, now infinite this sloshed salt sun burnt vessel soaked swollen with an air of surrender, whatever end to be- come maybe another's glorious awakening, the pull of day, gravity breaking bright orange, soul found surely in the wake.

Fat with dissatisfaction, we've grown ill

with consumption, subconscious

accents and affects swallowed whole

and it's eating

us from inside out - outside in

the soft light you'd never know though,

trimmed and filtered

to acceptably perfect/normal

how faces glaze over glaring

details of influence, reflections of every plate full

with empty counts and still

so hungry, parasites we feed like

for like, for follow

another leader, guru, expert

self-proclaimed diagnoses and cures

to fix ourselves/another

problem is how we are, essentially

starving for substance, all

choking on (mal)content.

to make full your one life - overflowing like how a sunrise spills across an ocean, the world offers a wealth of empty glass, and watches on as you pour light like a spring creek laughs Romantic, piano melodic and movement effortless, like love knows the way out and through you intuitively, bright and easy like it's a competition already won/ never a race/ and always time to pause, enjoy the view like it's the last chance seeing it as this you as the day(s) turn, change like a riot rich with colour, bursting beautiful like this life you've created, bold and ever beginning

There,

wandering through air thick with the heat of summer, pressing bodies and raised voices, down roads

infatuated with a wealth of pomegrate and willing osmanthus,

maybe it's you - in thoughts

like history passed down until truth turns fairy tale

(time is an unreliable narrator) and

now all that's left is a palace lined with paper and open

windows breezing sweetness with the promise of rain -

but all that falls from the divine, to prayer,

is a sign of surrender, dead feathers and this false desire

unworthy of being held

long after you've left,

once the walls start to crumble,

and a future slips in.

can we have feelings about triangles? how close need corners cut, to move one to the point, being inherently geometric - a sense of shape calculated in space, as lines lean away from one and towards another \ sharp always yet sometimes never touching - in separation, that distinction, perhaps an answer in the almost (maybe solving for distance), but when bounds are fixed, and aren't we? all limited, little room left for softness and lacking dimension at first glance, then can we even have feelings / are we still trying?

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