We fold into another,
On a sunny Sunday morning.
Like thin air into the
smokes of the woods
Where the mist that lies far ahead
Protects those morning flowers yet to smile.
When flesh and salt mold in
The art meets the eye of the transcends.
Little spheres of us
churning in urns of silver.
Angst and feral notes
transpiring into the dews of
a serene morning peck,
absolving into a grope for
meaning, to exist.
A decoction for growth, we laugh.
Leisure is,to expiate, of filth and toxic.
We reach up, in a bid,our hands reach out,
A connotation of liberty, is it?
Or grasping for that mirage
Seemingly inviting us.
Into yet another turbulence
Of promises, trials,
Loves and endless second chances..
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