I Wish to Hear the Sound of the Falling Tree When No One is Around

Pages opened to welcome a new flavour withstanding and pungent. The magnitude of each night comes shoveled in like coal, like dirt, like mud thrifted from nature to be burned for heat recycled within the body. Shine carried by the pink sleeve of the pearl white sky creaks and croaks

The man comes in for a ride each and every Sunday night. Right on the clock. Waits the man a thousand lonely seconds. Tick-tock of the clock. Second by second they lock the time down to the point that the man cannot close. He’s not the one to think

Gazing outside I see a mirror image reversed in polar difference mind-bending decision I’ve made two seconds ago.