In summer sunlight, Autumn gestated/beckoned.
Chaos to get into.
The tattered tethers of the known to leave behind.
The life, suspended, lives nonetheless inside, its mind in the past, its present; my mind in the present, my past.
There are clouds, in flux from grey to white, in the blue that the grassed hill climbs into, some walls of stone and little paths mark it, near the trees, for settlement.
I (Lo-fi-Japan-infused) write for Monday morn’.
Quite & very welcome.
Take the ink from the (FlexGrip) pen; articulate the uncontrollable.
“You’re a… spirit. Or a stroke…”
“Or a girl.”
“Or a Cheshire Cat.”
I know it’s not 5-7-5… but does it even need to be short-long-short?
Absorbent mimicry, aping all at once together.
Am I ever writing this? You were always reading this. The stars knew they were burning…
I never stopped. But…