The pace is numb. The distance is mute. The road yawns. Swallows us. Spits us out in another world.
The water listens. The wind resolves. Artificial gods paint their portraits in the grass.
It's too close. It's much too large. Lost in the relativity. Moments become miles.
Wearing her journey in evolution and in combat. wild horses and sharp corners. the practicality of contrition like worms expelled from the soil.
the blank. the spoils of solitude. unbending protagonists in sweating sobriety.
the years like a predator. the journey like a rope. still she remains. loyal to the treason of the hope.
Post a Comment