Where potatoes come to dine.

At the end of time,  He stood there staring down the shore. The world’s waves went as they always did, And his heart followed them, loving that girl, At the end of time. 

Out of this mind.

So that when he woke and the question begged why, He would see the Tree's own twisting body, Reaching for the sky. He would see the treachery of dreams, And believe that they are nothing,  ‘Til we leave this world.” 

Neither, I just kinda do whatever. 

She left them there, not with alone, nor with trapped, no, no-one of that ilk.  Instead, they found themselves in the company of a much more nuanced thing, a creature with a straight back and slumped shoulders, and eyes that did not reveal much.  In short, they were in the presence of an unnamed thing, for not every feeling has a title. Many dwell between the derived meanings of words fostered to share ourselves with others, beings made to dwell within us, for us. However, few ponder the things that live within the things that live within us. A microcosm of the intrapersonal.  Inside, they saw a haze, dreaily filtering the air, as lazy sounds sloshed about  and this creature idly meandered away; for it was the feeling of a tame wanderlust for the self, a fruitless persuit in our quest to name that which is like a dream in its brevity and composure, so that when the moment is over, and the thing has vanished in the alien caress of morning light, you wonder, was it even ever there?   They wish they could name them all, and they wish they could hold them in their concious mind, like anger. Show them to their friends and stow them away, just for safe keeping. But you cannot hide shadows, and the crystal air of winter can only be seen there.  And they know this, they can feel it. They slowly accept their day-dream emotions, and continue with their lives. 

Do not ask me to describe love to you. Force me not to contrive an answer. We both know it will shatter, When love’s clumsy fingers it does learn to know. Because love does not hold the hands we make with words, It holds the ones we offer, the ones we accept to see. And in this, the love is like the moon; Romance re-invented, romanticized. So do not ask me to describe love to you. Instead, ask me to describe the things I love. And I will paint you things of great simplicity. Of a life’s peace, of the world I have learned to see. Ask me instead, what I have let into my heart. Where it lives and when it likes to come out. Take a moment to let go of that word: It is like closing your eyes and feeling the warm sun hang on swaying winds; You figure out that there’s nothing to lose, And that instead there is so much to give.

It is like a street light in the dark. That whisp of smoke from the butt of a crumpled cigarette, The taste of which is not familiar to my tongue. It is like the everyday-hurts we feel, The “You don’t have to apologise” pains. Gone are the flames of torches, And tallow candles, dipped in truth. Goodbye dirt paths and cobblestone roads, The dead will only hear the rumbling of planes now. Hello to neon lights and gaseous brights, To asphalt and cracking glass. To boots in times of peace, Stomping on the every-day-man’s streets. Hello to pompous cheer, Goodbye to Sincerely-Here. Goodbye to my own mind, Hello to my passed time, Sweet like honeysuckle and Holunder brews. The softest kisser, of my most useless pair of lips. The kindest holder, of my most used pair of hands. So again, it is like a light in the stark darkness of a winter road, cradled in benevolent haze. That drifting line of fading heat, the most elegant smudge from the least elegant patron. It is the creature that makes the breeze that makes the wind, The waves that keep us sailing, the airs that keep us going. It is a fiction dwelling in post-mortem dress, but I digress: Affliction is not the root of suffering, and evil deeds maketh not the man. A ramble is still a thing, and a ramble I am. So goodbye anchor, you held me well. Hello vagueness, I am under your spell.