Candlelight

         

                                                                         ~2017

The dissonance is a swamp of graves used for growing crops. 

It is a world where the region is a lost one on any map, as mind postulates over  purpose and iniquity, classes and what-haves.  

 

I forget how sad classical piano can      sound, even when it is whimsical...

  No telling, if the sadness is mine, or shared by the notes, stumbling over themselves in rush for perfect placement. So smooth. 

So loosening. 

And grips, they unfold. 

My sleep escapes me late into another night.  Nerves twitch my canine and myself. 

My mind, flutters, like butterfly wings, against a wind pouring in. 

Riding, coasting, crashing, 

How the little winged things 

Surf into me. 

Hours of the night, a true hourglass, as time itself postulates to the mind and an AM dark hour kept by candlelight. 

      Seconds are lost in hours, veils lift, and the cat in me, stays awake to watch the night crawlers walk about.  

Ey, it is a late hour indeed, where words are sifted through like ancestors drafted Magna Carta's. I stay awake by iPhone screen, and type on technology. 

A new candlelight. 

A new Quill 

A New Time. 

The Dissonance of Graves