Honing the bowels of a crystal wood by taking a breath, pausing beside a railway seen only from above, a man dressed in pale-blue mumbles a joke to himself as he pretends to check his wristwatch.
He paces through the super-nova sovereignty of a compass, clipping shadows as he sweats. The typical refugee can never be honest with themselves, not enough to behold the glory of a stainless rendition between a cloud and a flower working together to call their name. They nod their head, grimace with the same certainty to the day ahead and proceed to confide in the revival of their own idea of sanity.
In the centre without end, tearing a piece of linen from the curtain tail, trees crumble to their roots.
The duck egg sky reeks of fresh paint, the desire to escape is met with that all too familiar frame of veins.
Manhood gutted — Childhood ignored; —
The Sun stays perfectly still as it withers.
But I have know worth for it. I never have.