#windstrewn

Strange, this gateless cage...

      Men—             Of my age—         Are fur-lined in an oddly ornate mange;     Proud, Coyote-sage,       Yet hid-at-home on our range.           Strange,     This gateless cage—         This rage-unwashable shroud.             When,                 By stormcloud,           Might I free that sweet pup in me again? Ursine Vulpine · Ursine Vulpine – Wicked Game Feat. Annaca

That’s dare-us. A pale blue dot.You’re not quite here… But there, in this photo—Barely a pixel. Some whistled-dismissal.A Mr. Roboto-stare; An 80s grotto;Our nowhere-near— Just stardust.

Daren’t leave it on my luck too-easily...

Yoste · Friends                         Please,             Help me not muck it up.   Daren’t leave it on my luck too-easily:             I’m quittingly queasy.                 Can’t tell if it’s you or yours truly— Might be me; no…     Almost certainly.                 ‘Cause all my hopes are the hurricane           Through our sapling-tree…                 As I tend to blow.   If even we’re…

The past's an absurdity...

                  The groove in this song           Has gravity—     It draws on me. Weirdly, rightly-wrong:     Recalled calamity           On my coattail.           It almost         Means nothing—                 The past’s an absurdity.             Or is it?       I avail my memory…     Of everything, Some a sting   On that great something         In my life.     Sweet though dry,       A…

One.

I stood still within the Wind last eve,   Let Her fingers tease my hair,     And, through squinted eyes afraid of drying,   Glimpsed Her guessing She came from nowhere     (Yet from somewhere, lest I be lying). And, lightly, She grasped me by the sleeve,   Heartened me to face the west,     Where, sourced beyond my long-shadowed arbor,   A mellow giant did seek His rest     In some recessed…

I’ve already built a parapetted castle on my past's burnt-ends...

Listen in on this meandering, mercurial bend: I’ve been waging war ‘Gainst all my demons and dead-ends For—seems like forever. And, still, I tends-to-win— Every-left-to-self-time, Because lesser nonsense bleeds downhill my ever: My ever’s not for sale…that’s a mud-stick you can’t take. It’s not made of earth-and-dale, Or unearthed by my heart’s thorough rake ‘Cross redeeming, sweetest…