in the unctuous stream of the amygdala
a skull soaked
and prodded into a bustling blunder
but can the sound of dreams be caught in fragile rope centers
cleansed by wind swept feathers?
constellations being hustled and jerked by mother wind,
something must be done wrong
but meanwhile to forget the task at hand, shall we ink in a skyline?
there is a loss in these wants-
and this beaded rope work is too tangled to siphon through.
when the word no longer stems from the words
a past no longer rooted in the seasons
roots no longer seasoned by a past
my seasons no longer pass.