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If in lieu, of retribution, for the events past and the events future, you receive, a moment of peace; would it suffice? If the earth crumbles, out of thirst, felt by the seeds, buried in its bosom; quenched one day, or maybe never. And the soil, could find its fragrance, though soaked in blood, salty with sorrow, but still alive, by asking for a portion, of the moment, you perhaps prize; will you? Regardless of your choices, if offered salvation; can the act of choosing it, over rightful demise, get you any closer, to the light? Tell me. What is the source, of your plight? T 

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The bed is a sea. Sunken in the sheets, sweat of the mad sun. Living on the edge, of the bed, or perhaps ledge, is the maiden’s turmoil. Swish, swoosh, clatter, chatter of shamans and their ilk; is no use, for the pain, brought upon by the stars; through the hands, of the living and the dead. And yet they try, to sing and fry, the eyes that carry the sky, caught in the rising tides. Do not forget to shower, on a canicular day. That’s all I have to say. 

T