So it is

but whispering it screams into the air

the air is crisp, crackling with freshness as the snow laies half melted, falling into the newly muded december, breathing icy coldness onto everything that comes into contact with it, freezing things into a timelessness perfection of melancholy. Nothing is good, right, bad, wrong; just enduring, hoping nothing will melt the order of chaotic, meaningless nonsense that is taken without question every day. every moment. every second and breath. O God! Does it feel good, amazing in fact. Sitting here playing with the order of ways- it this it, control... non-control addiction perhaps is in the future as more is acted upon. Consuming. The feeling. The wastelessness that lingers in the air. is all but probably with standing but a choice that can only be selected by one, only processed and analyzed by a single factor. But, doesnt it feel incindiary? for the destruction is surely truculent and flamboyant. nothing is or will ever be as- over analyzed and un-thought about. This is Now. This is it as the numbness begins to eat the legs and hands- uncensored, only thing to do is shower with disappointment and despair....It is consuming through: something more than nothing, bringing thoughts and gaps together- emptiness. Crystalized smoke falling around, frozen to see where it all might go wrong.

Reviews

[An owl on the moon]

You have captured the ethereal essence of thought, threaded fragments that align and speak so perfectly of existence in the now... One can feel the December chill, the alienation, the pain, the destructive tendencies of society... Powerful!

Craig