Almost folded, but not quite. What’s new? I guess I am. Still floating on bounteous love, still here. All minds in range, lit up from the blissful intrigue of such wanderings. A sea of feasts, teeming with what might be.
Looking over my shoulder, I see the last time I sighed. Wanton misbelief, mischief and soured times. They echoed like the slog of a final page, where ink carries a mountainous mantle; a rope, harrowed and fraid.
Forget me not, for the candle holds. The wax doth melt, under beads of sweat. I still wipe my brow, when I’m on the line. The engine steams along, and the old opine. Another fateful song, another grape and vine.
I know it’s all to come, because it has a life, that exists beyond my measured gaze. Tremulous desire, waiting all this time. The uncommon sunk in a tragic state, or would HG Wells have a point to make?
I accept Mercury and await the poison, from showing mettle. A message from on high. There’s no time to lace my boots, when I must have a naked mind. Tiptoe into the unknown, or dare to dive.
What is left to the roots and ashes, if we are not born before we die?