Paralytic vision converter verging on the edge of mended delusion. A rose softly dropping it’s three petals like a roll of silent thunder, because you lacked the vantage to see the lingering fourth.
Passive aggressive in its active nature, every tree refuses to violate the horizon. Dawn rebels, tired of the earth’s cyclical self, shelving the responsibilities of time management and begrudgingly nudging forever off into eternity.
It’s a cosmic rip, like the moon harpooning your mama’s ceiling and doing lunar things to her while you are sleeping, it makes me sick.
The night sky is the eternal Judas.
The march of time is the wisest clueless.
And my contrite mind stays awake to tune in.