Pheromones Poem by James McLain

On journeys back looking up counting stars.
If close is to close,
and the rocky out crops is close to the root of the tree.
Stay only close very close to the edge.
The shadows at the edge of deep woods,
by one bush, this night counting stars.
Not a cloud mixed with the skies.
The sea has not pulled back her veil.
My eyes further plunge down red ravines.
Sitting atop spinning around the real-world.
And them I meant those from the woods.
And I mean those whom have had once mounts,
and of all that I've seen of nature.
Nothing controls and nothing can stop.
Pheromones that can bend our will to there smell.
Reaching out to crest the next hill, l' foam of their peak.