Explorations
to-
For
a lack of a better word-
Unknown
to ones mind
Leaves
no stretch to be desired.
Nothing
here is to be normal:
The
wooden table
Through
its endless circular
Dimension.
Trembles…
As
if a waking frontier
In
a mother bear’s dark den.
The
exit lights up;
Breaking
through the dark of night.
The
sprinting- Burning-
Shakes
as he breaks for it:
“A
few more steps; A few more”.
The
flames do dies down
After
the end of the night.
The
bear awakens
In
the wars dank aftermath
And
marches on for her cub.
Marching;
marching; March
The
days pass onwards to months.
The
leaves keep falling
As
if nothing happened
And
is fine in the world.
It
is in regards
To
matters of peace and war.
Love?
In days dark dies
Like
the rest which bears cherished;
Like
the rest which man forget.
The
collapsing cloud
Spread
across the landing point.
Forever
hungry
Its
stomach growled and roared and
Ate.
Its stomach roared and ate.
The
burning man turns
A
cold finger to walkers.
The
sensational timing
Which
man often do brag of
Does
sting; Especially now.
The
arrhythmic beat
Surrounds
the aura of wood.
The
throbbing hands land
Creating
a deafening
For
all the forest ears.
The
lonely bear: Lost
In
a search for those long gone.
The
sound; attractive.
So
the bear marches onwards
To
find a wooden table.
All
that is left now
Is
a circular tree stump.
A
sickening cry
Of
mourning emerges and
The
last piece of hope is gone.
