Premise: we are thriving off the lives that criss-cross around us, leaving paper trails.
The glory in mortality
Sense is the seeing, believing, the touching, tasting, the being
The slopes that rise and fall With our breath between them Are a sihloutte of green hips On the horizon: Suspended across the skies In an effortless sprawl, They are wild thighs To the wondering mind As a pen is to paper The incarnation of daydreams.
We pepper our words for the common feast
Did you ever take a breath to inhale the harmony of 200 hearts in transit, beating between old-beninngings and new-ends?
Matter born of mind is never strictly unnatural