the city is not natural…
I cannot find closure within it…
in here nature feels…ill fit…
my tail does not wag the same
swagger comes with shame
there is sewage beneath my feet
all envisioned voices are in full retreat
isolation…well dressed, more refined
there is a growing sense of being ambushed by steel
to lay outside the box…it appears easier to define
It is a cluttered step I take…under the weather.
The wilderness calls to me…
Reminding me…’I am the lost soul.’
I have surrounded myself with other wanderers.
A circle of seekers…under the weather.
None of us deceived by items we do not need.
But for some there is no tourniquet for the bleed.
THEY take sips from sorrow’s cup.
And, only when the wilderness calls…enough is enough.
Under the weather lies the love.
Where the light and dark meet…
a hidden trail.
And, it is there, I believe I am free.
My notions and ideals enhance under the ambiance of flowing greenery.
Life is embellished in…sights unseen.
But of course, I am not a consultant to nature.
An adviser to the woods, I will never be.
Still for a fleeting moment…I am free.
There is no moisture to the air…
All movement brittle.
Illumination is covered in droplets of shade.
A dance so bountiful. That any lapse in time…seems to come out from the middle.
Black and white; a difference of transient motion… set upon my mind’s eye.
And, how it envisions too much…Or, just a little.