Somehow, the sun softens the constant bombardment of young pressure. Those rays you can see, reaching out of holes in the cloud, balancing between sky and earth on fingertips. But ghosts make no fingerprints. In the same way one can smell the way warm brick feels on your skin, you can feel the perfect light, relieving any darkness of its post. Remember the way it would flood the side of your face, and you would relish the pain when you looked her in the eye.
I lay in the long grass by the river that conquered me once, hiding me from prying eyes. The birdsong cleaned my heart and I watched messages in the sky. Swirling white water creating faces and beasts, signs and nonsense. In the city you never take the time to look up and listen. I feel myself fading, failing to darkness, heeding the white lies of people and places and I know I need to run. Would it help if I tried to let it pass me by? My talent I guess is to appear to do nothing, when really I am contemplating everything that you, judge, are. Fickle heart and glazed eyes, I struggle to find truth in your lies. How can I trust the grey concrete when it’s purpose is to sell?
Awake my soul with birdsong, lend me your mind and you will see the world how I see it. We will run together over land, dodging fingertips and laughing for the open skies. Let’s run.
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