The small amount of lies fostered in a cul-de-sac
bring back a flowering of rains fallen by the sea side.
This he keeps in a shoulder pack if only as a half sodden, torn off
loaf of tissue cultivated from a detrimental odyssey of vaporous
decay engineered by the purely incidental inclusion of a privatized
After a manner of speaking, the heat driven from this exertion
lifts the cold fronts necessary to impact and darken
the farthest horizons of his brought along mind.
Herein is mirrored the curious resolution of proximity
following function, and form as necessary reflection, like
a cowled dome both protecting and concealing that which has
never really moved.
The upkeep of this quest is a perpetual
illusion he has been charged with maintaining;
that form follows function, and not the other way around,
and that which desire knows it comes from can never be rekindled.
Because function follows form when the last
question is answered, if a pinch of truth could
plant the seeds from which a fruitful crop
is harvested to be dried into bundles like sage
can be gathered from the barren side of winter's hill.
Then it follows that the transubstantiation of cinders
mixed with crushed petals could be carried across interminable
treks due to intersect another wayfaring traveler's lonesome passage.
Here an exchange of dust smoked in each other's pipes
can reverse the forked tongues of forefathers.
Here the untold damage of history's lies can be undone.
It only takes one figment of imagination.
The pouch is woven from the fibers grown from the seeds it carries.
And nothing besides goodwill is required of passing strangers to water it.
Who arrived on goatwinds eating licorice.
Who peered out from under the tree
grown out from the top of their heads.
Who vacillated from insubstantiality
to being taken out of context
like a drawing propped carefully
alongside a statuette:
One is inanimate, ready to burst free
while the other has been released
in a sinewy, coiled escape.
Just waiting for the rain
that will help grow the tree
inside their brain to the wide open blue
to get lost in that terrain again.
At what cost does freedom become moot
when all dreams get covered in soot?
So shake the dust off the motes in your eye
and peering out from under your branch
follow the wind, my friend.