The turning awaits the wind.
It 's a thin sheet of plastic, is a galaxy, a thought that makes endless laps around itself and becomes trapped in the clutches of an obsession. It 's a sequence of numbers, a geometric design, a common form in nature, a distraction hanging on a wooden stick, a vertigo.
But how many laps around itself a memory before being so far away from the origin thought to be a fuzzy memory?
E 'came the wind. There's no peace, no real estate. The motion stops. It 's a swirl of red and silver eye no longer able to distinguish and then the mixture until it lost its meaning. I wonder if the stars are watching, if tomorrow I'll be reckless enough to feel hopeful, if their minds to the vertical means to celebrate the soul, if the body is healed, or will be made to learn to let go ...
0 comments:
Post a Comment