Oh the pine whispers
instill such wind-whipped
longing striking
the hot irons of our
souls-
it sizzles, charismatic,
like frying eggs.
The blackened skillet
our only contender
in its infintesimal wisdom;
the camp-out logic
of bonfires on the shore
the crackling embers
making sounds
as our
wise running souls
crack free of our ribcages
those so lacy protectors
of our canary-song dreaming,
our splashes of yellow
against some sombre
grey ward walls
off the avenues
-oh the dying spirits flew!
But our freedom
plunging into the sea
it goes, the future nipping
forever at our salt-drenched
ankles, they are scuffed
and bleeding from the
briar patches we
stumble through
for this forever-dream.
This fire in our
scrambling bones
wakes us in a jangly dancing
our spirits launch free
and are cosmic
burning things.
We touch the
flaming stars
and weave them in
our hair,
dashing through the
open nights across
the westernly fields
into the tall towns
and past them to the
water
from which all stems
and soon returns,
this capturing of our fleeting
souls illuminated in the
swaying rhythmic trees
over the salt cliffs!
These breaking free
fluttering hands
which open the gilded
cage door
and our souls meet
the air with a crackling sweet
sound- opportunity
hits the iron
and sizzling off
we go
in bursts of steam
these, we free
people running
to the sea
across the grey and dying landscape.
[This is from yesterday.]
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