It was evening and would be when I woke. No matter. From the maple tree the Red-tail spoke.
Giving up is always an option, but not always a failure.
The storm before the calm.
So much of control is not authoritative action but mindful waiting.
Ultimate vulnerability. That’s manly.
To live meant feeding my former self to my current self.
A poet could kill the dead.
In other words, I tasted a different drug. A drug called progress.
Unreality cooled reality’s burn.
Stories do not change, only the lives they live in do.
Don’t settle, but settle.
The granted for taken.
The whispers inside the red wheelbarrow’s dew.
The ribboned gallons that rule us like beliefs rooted in single experiences.
Feed peace not fear, make spoon not war.