The Flux

Ancient mysteries dusted by time, and the decomposition of memory. Good intentions, once verdant and lush in the glow of sunshine, now fallen to rustle with desiccated dreaming like autumn leaves. 

Wading through this accumulation of thought with a whisper, shedding layers to litter the footprints behind me.

Solitude is shimmering like moonlight on the water, a curtain of gossamer spider strands adorned with pearls of dew. A crystalline breath rising on a brisk wind, upward to rustle with the skeletal hands of an Alder. Humming along in the hoarse voice of a winter frost, joints creaking like two maples rubbing together in a wood.

The glow of my eternal summer, soothing to the pains of age and pangs of guilt. Basking in the warm folds of sand on a deserted beach, here on the edge of reason in the jungles of paradise. Enfolded by the salty arms of the sea, soft rain drops laying warm kisses on my shoulders, south wind blowing words of endearments into my ear.

Tides of yearning and bliss, wisdom and epiphany, ebb and flow on the shifting horizon of my pages, and once again evening dances like a woman in a red dress. Color softly flowing into darkness like a stream seeking the river, an owl calls his question to to the shadows creeping in slowly from beneath the mountain.

Time is an illusion, the pathway my feet are wandering is flirting with realities alternate versions of me have strolled before, and I am following the trail of tears and laughter, poetry like road signs. Reflected in my iris is the green renewal of altered perception, and my pupil is a black ink well of which your quill quenches it’s thirst.

Wandering alone here in glistening metaphor, where the surf and I break gently.

 

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