I have spent
-As the leaves fall from the burden
of indiscriminate season rains-
and wandered
-fur striped with rivers of doubt-
Countless idle moments
enrapt
in my own electrified perceptions…
remaining unmoved by the needs of either my own
or the world

-the arrow waits for the bowman-
 
So I set out to illuminate my downfall
to convince my own disbelief…
 
-The ink-splotched map, crumbled under its worn way-
…the route with the red arrow defining my escape.

It has grown in my near memory
And I have given voice
To a different world

One that loves me

Since I cannot


“Be thou spent in errant wandering,
The arrow has lost its way;
The dew of morning has dried on the leaves
And the winds have burned them away.” said the toad in the puddle.

“Between the sky there is an orchard;
The Orchard of Wandering Way.
Be silent in autumn and listen close
As the bowman prepares the prey.” said the toad in the puddle.

-what he says hardly ever makes sense-



Believing this new world was real
Has led my valiant thoughts away
 
Their armor no longer catches light
Their steeds have worn their hooves away
 
I am still here

The sky is bent beneath its weight

The whole world has changed

And yet…






I have not escaped.

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