It rolls forth, a current of soft destruction, swirling about, leaving nothing untouched. It disturbs in epochs, in periods of time, in unmeasurable meters it wraps you up.
You see it lightly stimulate your skin–owning this moment more than you even recognize its passing. Shaping things that you’ll never see, shaping things that you might know. It owns you. Everywhere you go it is. It leaves you for dead and swirls on.
And it moves, it forgets. You never were.
Stochastic as fuck; creates a perfunctory pop as it fucks up your wares. Moving to a rhythm set in aces; changes perceptions, taking umbrage at one’s increased irrelevance. It’s modernity: hello!
fin
The old man. He stood on that hill. With quiet reflection he gazed out at you; his chest heaving, breath almost shades of pungent; he’s too far away–steaming–hating you with eyes that are void.
You shift uncomfortably–unsure if what you see can be taking place–his eyes are ice to your body–there is the sense that your skin might slough off with a nod from your nerves. You like this notion, but it triggers a gag from the depths of your throat.
The old man. Why won’t he leave? You begin to hate him, his eyes. Why won’t they stop staring at you?
He shifts in the wind–a tree.
Ok, as per one of my goals recently, I’ve been trying to write something every day. So far I’ve produced a smattering of work, none of which is fantastic, but I figure I might as well post it and get it out there.
The morning air brushes past my face–
but it refuses to move on.
It stings as it begins to move through my
nose and mouth, past my tongue.
I exhale.
I move on.
Where goes the strong one?
Into eternity I would guess.
Blown back again, not so missed.
Maybe forgotten. One day remembered.
Walk away; the night will remember.