Between the rise and fall of a leaf caught in a persuasive breeze comes a moment of pause, of reflection.
The roof and the ledge, and the paint, and how they all change the direction of the wind, unless it chooses the height of a cloud.
The storm and the ocean, and the beckoning warmth that feeds it, and the shifting cold that kills it.
Ledge of the sea floor, not deep anymore, show yourself and claim the lives of this island.
Hunger determines its end, either one way or another, one choice or another.
Wrath is the time pressing on beneath a surrender.
Applause will appear as secure as a bliss, but will never be sure of its tender.
Ledge of the floor, not deep anymore, show yourself once as defiant.
Distraction and dot mark time in a way that convinces a man of his staying awake.
The folding of hands, then spreading them out, then walking away and not looking back.
When sanity calls, the numbers recalled, for laws are made to be polished.
Ledge of the floor, not deep anymore, not deep as I had acknowledged.