When the lines in the sand are drawn, not with the scathing bite of a young Shepard's laugh, but with memories of sweeping shadows, dawning from the tidal infinity known as lust.
When the first breath begins with an exhale, waves of fluttering light dancing in the haze. Waters of its conscience whitecap with relentless fury, terrorizing every cerebral vessel.The problem is solved; the solution is a problem.
When the wingspan surpasses the length of thought, of reason it becomes, no longer a soaring declaration, but a zygote regressed to its dependent self.
When opened, a shine closes in, beams with such fury, time is lost. Awake damp earth.
A late arrival.
