That which brings the sky to tear also makes the soul wither.
Shrink to act and no faction will receive respite.
Belittle will and it’s sister hope,
for real life’s blique and a far cry from what are dreams.
When there’s space, you fill it with essences that fade and when there’s nothing left to wonder, silence pokes at the membrane.
Where are the voices and the cords that make the busted lyric?
Is there ever knowing without the exchange of fates, of trials, of lies?
But maybe there’s some sense in all this fraught ellipses:
That there works in its own time, a story for the ages; whether or not you decide to play a part of it.
That blue and black are the colour of pain; and scars are a show for it.
That only time can cure sickness; but death is only the start of it.
Now let the dandelions fly away and thither.
No need to worry.
The wind will guide their paths to hades and nirvana.