Stretching into the menace of emptiness, lies stems of the journey that wraps around, again.
And again.
Back to the start, and twisting into the depth of the middle, there’s no pain in the detours that made no announcements.
Time likes to toy with spirits of the past.
That’s how the present can stand on two feet, with flagrant scowl at the sight of nature’s purposed messaging in the dying buds of seasons that kill loudness of warmth.
We can walk in unison to avoid attachment, but who parades the blind, when they see the patches too late?
Wrapped around for miles and miles more, the blood-filled capillaries always threaten to drain and suffocate.
But by the grace of goodness is the discontent of manageable comfort.
Stretching for miles…
