In the becoming of an impression immortally important and into legacy’s realm repeated and recalled and retweeted we ‘amen’ to both; the previously consummated and the just about to transpire! We shift into objects of alternative daylight with the accepted expectations of extraordinary flashes of original thought and lights of magnificently creative creations through perceptions of flashing preconceived originality and congested repeaters across a wondrous land of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea-or-coffee-or me-or-you-or-us or.
Ghost clouds block moonlight as they race clouds across the early morning sky tucked somewhere between dawn and night. And! What is the color of souls? In these dreams see war. To fight and to find death. There be gods in this place? If-So! Come to Cloud early in transition time and seek flash-ride to spiral and skip into framing time.
Ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust. New-ways-to-win—we must be us!
Below the places of spaces, a great tangle of yards and rails carry the price of commerce commercially to and away and beyond this bridge with dirty sea ships sailing toward one another. They bounce the line; black shadows, slowly creeping beneath an injured sky. No wind! Masts no sails. Crude! Not fueled, cold furnaces and boilers just empty drums with warm air. Now adjust eyes and turn and follow the silent ships passing one another. They ride the line with no wake. They do not disturb the oiled sea or change silt-less shoals beyond an invisible channel. Then watch and wait for their silent return.
Forget to breathe as a foghorn moans and moans again just within the cone of hearing in an evening rare without fog or mist. Held inside, air rushes into throat and through nose and mouth. Sea odor and eyes tear. Bridge time is fine and darkness safe. Search the sea and see, those lines have moved closer to shore. Then nothing because all ships are gone.
Often, a gentle shift replaces everything!
Braces require nails to hold together both life and doors. Caveland stores many for outside, a plague dances for two hundred years of long-singsongs and with sickness and death and a quiet destruction forever-follow. Watch the next fire begin and end as another begins and ends until tower eyes can never see the next and the next, as eternal signals mean absolutely nothing to ‘City’ people framed against that August sky.
Move along! Always move toward fear among these places of reasons-to-be or reasons-to- move-along? No and yes or not really or really scared of the mixes in the yes and no—until ‘run together’ forgets to be afraid. Little ones grow old and die inside hundred-year-old lyrics just outside tomorrow. And! When holding yourself very still, beetle wings are loud, and their textured light guides your motions through the night. Sing and those born-to-die select their own singsongs. High above the Towers-of-Bridges, Watchers use as signal frames, hard-wood fires and pinecones of quick sparks ‘til death does crackle and stop…
And! Beautiful you are…