AtLast_[07]

>> Distemper of Serene Presentiment <<

In seasons change I felt his hand on me So many traces echoed of his word What feelings. Strange. A steal of sacrament. So many races lost upon the sword. A flower strives to pull itself erect As morning yawns and spreads into the glare By nature's gift a lull of sweet restraint So gently lifted we descend from here. Is craving weight Of passion merely? From where, of what - is rain? To savor thus Of cumulus in scattered play, we race In deeply hungered search through soulless void. Unknowing, gulled, we bite to down the bait. White clouds which shape in sunshine Press their forms into our minds. Therein hangs a gentle fog on portents in our lives. In reason's change I savored my ignominy, So many faces beckoned our accord. What dealings hang on seals of discontent, So many baseless trappings of before? Our feelings weaken of our intellect When fawning palls foreboding in despair Of riches left unculled despite complaint. So many hints that we depend on fear.

Clouds impress us. Clouds distress us.

But clouds Are clouds Of we who breathe them life, As other lives address us.