I Leave The Wheels To Machinery,
There Are Strange Things In The Clouds,
Honest And UnDieing They Could Live In The Wake,
Of New Days From The Next Deaths Of The Old,
Turning Lightning InTo Blackness And Stone,
The Wearing AWay At The Grip Of Dreams,
Erosion Of Forms And Patterns,
Blinking The Light From Entrance InTo Havens UnSeen,
Tenacity To Cling From The Swaying Lines,
To Burn And Incinerate The Dream,
To The Fragments For Spaceious Skys,
UnDoing Like ButterFlys,
Ripping Through The Membranes BeTwixt Glass And Grain,
Shadeing Lapses As I Step Forward…
Never A Division For A Partial Chance,
Empty As All Paces Can At Once Be,
Each To Lift Not To Settle,
And As I Have Stood…
Those From Such Walks Meet,
Side By Side,
To Stare Beyond The Shoulder’s Length,
Filling With Texture And Sleepless Breath,
Fingers Pressed Against The Surface,
Cool To The Touch…And Smoother Than Lies.
Visit Richard at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.
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