Blown dried teardrops lace the speedless ascent of the sun. Prithee, typing weeds still sprout like confections from burnt bakers hands. The intimate grimace of delights unfurling into diverging tracks, and the strange tremors as the boarded up railhouses collapse. Men pour out like wine on desert sand, escaping the inescapable dunes, but the Clint Eastwood figure already treads away with ghostly imminence on the magical beige-maned horse.
Turning to greater trivialities, and the profound mansion that lives off its moss and its cackling rough stone, we dance like jolly goblins around the rainforest grass, stretching over undefined heads and the ripping heat.
The moon is the remain of the coffee coloured stains, and still, and stark, like the ancient stone that could not turn to green cheese and lies in Merlin's suspension,
lifeless yet cratered, orbiting yet encaged, marbled yet uncooked, admired yet nonexistent, romanticized yet misundestood, feared yet dominated, appetizing yet uneaten, tide giving yet tide spurning.
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