This is not a sentence, it’s a novel,
days flung to ceaseless winds without remorse;
gone, the time we lived life at full throttle,
now our plotted course, a hum, a rattle.
Outside, the earth’s rotating while we pause,
a CinemaScope of animals sing
of repossessing shrunken pockmarked shores,
inland woods and hillsides scathed, mythos burnt.
Inside, we are unfurling from our shells,
blankets draped, quick to catch distant visions,
And each of us composes our own tale;
take note the quiet feats of early light.
Boundaries will be crossed in pen and ink,
a film in black and white to watch when sick.