He punished his feet up and up the tall hill with the woolly weather hat.
Turning a little, He breathed the secret air that shyly danced around him.
Ah, but the buzz passes quicker than
A wasps wings whizzing by an empty glass.
It’s the effect stupid, and it seeps in deeper
Than blood. It hit’s the head first,
Being is. No simple universal category
Its meaning lost in an ancient allegory
The question lost through the march of time,
That which bursts forth in every rhyme.
I feel the cool winter creep at the end of my nose
On the sheet laid street, beneath my now made calves feet,
As I stagger in unsure awe, at the milky sky, that bore a frozen fruit,
Where this seasons loot, sank, as endless butter flecks dowsed
Early morning blues
So bright in their urgency they are a crisp neon
As I spy the pillow end, when eyes like lion jaws
Open in anger.