Fall won’t ever fade
and Winter would become just a myth
we tell to our weary-eyed children
as they drift off to sleep
i am golden and ancient, lacquered by memory and layered with history
a scene set to enrapture you, to chain you to a certain crescendo
a celebration of shared perspective
a harem of sorts
we are the neverenders, the outliers.
our lungs are full and eager,
refusing the geared regularity of this machine.
the stage and the lights created the illusion of intimacy, an inorganic nearness.
the great white whale of contentment eludes me
they are a sea of surging words
i’ve been dreaming of a seamless existence
eric skelton 