The music is endless image of an immeasurably continual waterfall, I always want to walk there, enter the wild throe of the band of water, never to hear another wrench or shriek, but the whir become roar of cascading the tumbling, enveloping downslope.
Alternately, it is the dream then the waking from dream that sullies the heart, one cannot forswear discovered clouds, not sit a realistic instant in any fold or furrow no matter how delightful.
The wind, then, to move the stagnant depression-
times, however, there is not a whisper of breeze and the trees in duress limp to horrible stone- the earth sits heavy unto itself.
None can lift the body to ease the grief hand that would mend widespread damages hurt itself.
What humiliation to lessen the burden, weight of greatness acrid, awkward delusion,
that will not bring the body lower than the ground from which it began to climb but show an elliptical manner possible one horizontal, as in benignly, to cross the room not to rake shoulders of the others with the cleats of boots nor to uproot the ambitious saplings crowding, aspiring
but to enter the throes enter the ragged breaking down, circumstance in which all are twofold swimming, grace incarnate and a submerged worm drowning.
"Help me down" like she said, never any better anywhere but closer to where dirt is made of dirt to look around from there around there the stars, small lights not swirls aflame that dizzy the charlatan's eyes among them without shine or any way to streak across the sky where one happily gently is not a fixture.