haphazard, half alive in the eye of a defunct storm. haphazard, only half cognizant on the rim of a long dead crater of fire, filth, pestilence and crime. crying, oh crying for the night, for the disparate few and far between dewy drops of starlit ecstasy to seep in mildew and rot in our weary bones. left instead unsated and sustained by the milky mist of a slivered moon only to slip mercifully into an inky black, and oh so slow and dreamless sleep. one bourne of midnight ravings, sunlit ramblings, endless pondering and forever ago now it seems, deep and profound wondering. towers of sound and sordid history rise up from the most ancient of ancient fertile, black rich soils, tilled seeded and tended by the toils of time. pools of liquid light gather eagerly at your feet, tendrils of green and all manner of sylvan finery stretch verdant garlands across your damged frame. the vines that once choked now silently exhale from a million timid maws the breath of life into once stale and frozen lungs. the age has passed. a haggard and grimy man hides his pallid face. deep sloping valleys and sharp canyons, the indelible mark, the calling card of time upon time upon time, make their way across his countenance in resolute and indefatigable terms. towards home and towards no where, in his wake, in the trail of his silent footfalls a last few grains of sand settle, lazy and grateful for rest.






























ae.