Casual hands fill the void between

the eventual start and the beginning

of desired direction.

We are pieces of land, scattered at the

base of gravity.  Colored in sections,

strong with desire, sensitive to growth.

We are casualties of all sizes, knocking

at doors, attempting the great things by

overcoming  the loss.

We are the memory of a thousand diaries;

words and paper try the story.

We see a sky void of clouds.  Something

warns us to prepare, to stand fast as

instinct takes over thought.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s