Slithering under heated rays as the day before and when tomorrow comes,

the long and patterned rope lays on the shimmering concrete with gaping authority.

Curiosity finds footsteps breezing by with promise of deferred visits if the object continues to beat through hours without movement.

Even the sturdy waves of wind funnels matched with pounding rainfall can’t ruffle acrobats transfixed in knotted elegance.

The background of appearances can be anybody’s guess.

What if the owner shed her accessory after a mighty run, up and down the hill and back again with jolly pride that demands evidence of victory.

Perhaps the girl stubbornly ripped apart the source of contempt, and watched it fall with fascinated duty.

How about a peaceful stroll in the overcast tunnel, where the breeze is feisty enough to steal a token as it evacuates back to swirls above.

With further observation, your eyes elevate the pebbles providing a glee of cushion for braided magnificence, sprawled inches away.

The reckoning of a flourished lifespan that surpasses hovering elements is the mark of respect, that devises daily pilgrimages where yellowed feet circle undisturbed traces of theories.

The braid in the street is meditative recognition of the serenity of habitual reinforcement.

It lays determined and alive without the connection to where it never belonged.

Safe, secure, and awake in the street is the single braid with crossed limbs and secrets that greet each gaze.

Just like the day before, and when tomorrow comes.

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