In the mess of this awakening I can hear a touch. Faint, if that, but nevertheless. Smoldering, on the verge of an urethral existence, we press onward. A galactic scope this is. In the silence we must wait. On a bench, with our feet hanging; Arms resting against the back of the seat. I could've collapsed there for her. Instead, I left hand in hand with my thoughts. It makes for a simple task to break our own measures. Accomplish our own deeds. To send away a kid to college without any intrigue. You've raised him to be everything that you are. Everything you were. Its passed down like stones rolling off a sheer cliff. Until at the bottom it rests, moss growing, accompanied by weeds. These are all synonyms of the unconscious. Spawned from every root, then thrown from every pore. It internalizes nothing. Sing bird, it is your natural thing, if you have a pulse, then let it ring.
