(no title)

Where the sky meets the sea and all the cloud formations in-between, I scream with everything that has tortured me for you to come back.  Coarse sands, every pebble, rub through me exposing an hour glass of waiting. Trying every second to be less abjured by gravity I cannot feel this world without you in it.  Trying every second to be more blinded by reality I cannot see this world without you in it. Despite the daily hues and nightly embers allowing me to forget momentarily, the bigger picture lacks the flame.  God do I want to burn my hands!
     amidst fog, unclear a path towards holding
    There, the deer stir and leap with no king
Coolness, that of damp yet growing, awakens the leaves
osmosis deepens the air and lowers the light but for the rays of

        glitter and fairy-tales 

Wondering shrieks echo, echo off the timeless canopies, echo down the twisted vines, reverberating the roots with psychosis through the forest. 

A dew drop changes to molten love 

as it slips from its flower

Igniting the stem, the leaves and the friendly fauna. Asphyxiating clouds replace the mist like an enchantress scorned has commanded toxicity and torture to spread lustily. The psychosis spreads like the fire burning, prior lulled animals turn frantic and demonic as their rushed paws and the like are licked by devouring fervent intensities. What was timeless crashes in seconds with cackles, infernally possessed in the cracks the trees argue and lose, overwhelmed they meet the pit of hell. 

      braised behind, with a wall choking

   the beetle, frets for haste his own thing 

       No, gold ring takes all movement 

Swallowed by a tunnel of blue tint 

A small pop, unheard in the blazed

    So, heat till, depress untimely death. 

What is a forest erased but devastation and ash? All because a drop of dew thought itself something warmer in fluidity. All reality obscures for a single moment in time which causes havoc then smoking remnants. My hands can hold neither ash nor devastation for longer than kept sorely shut, eventually I open them and both dissipate with the breeze. 

Then do my hands dig deep, into the soiled, undergrounded still warm with hope yet dark still with the unknown.  Digging repeatedly enough for

Less covered there,

  a contrasted lesson of life with its humble beginnings and smallness

                        a seedling emerges. 

It all cycles back to you.  From the forests to the shores to the skies to the stars, where not one thing is not touched by an undercurrent not of you. A world with you in it is worth the world burning my hands.