sipping in the sour juice,
pointed towards the sky
the shoots scratch
and itch the bare of my neck
now thrust among the thistles.
the sun splits the earth
its shadows saturate thoughts.
wind whistling in the shell of my ear,
trees creak and speak with forked tongue
moaning ghosts of dry, dancing gypsies
telling universal truths i cannot translate.
sea of sun sparks, rows of rhythms,
ripples marching always onwards,
after some unknown destination
to which all liquid light is fated.
solemn clandestine of peaks,
piled in points like drip castles of sand,
snow slides settle into crevices,
spilled milk solidified by sunshine,
the edges spoiled by white wash.
a waif cloud wanders overhead,
dissipating with each breath of sky,
falling back to teal lagoons
nestled below.
evolutions fittest feat.
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