Trees are a river of that which swallows light.
I remain wholy unimpressed or satisfied by those aspects
of nature that were added mine.
Within the cycle. Containment.
My memory is moving between,
like a carousel it rotates.
Control is an illusion a prediction a joke.
Now I am lost in the confines that I have created.
The thought and insight I need to leave,
was traded for such a vain exploration of everpresent
landscape.
I AM ONLY WHO I SAY I AM.
Beauty's water is filling my eyes, my blood is drying up.
The gorgeous surroundings are reason enough to never let
another drop of that cold poison past my lips.
Lucid, is just a word.
A vestigial organ on the tip of my tongue beyond my teeth,
as I attempt to satisfy my body growing in desire of water.
Sweat soaks my shirt its all I need, but the last thing I want,
all I want is to succeed in the failure of physiology.
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