Maybe in the end, the circumstances dictate the pace to the point where light and dark blur into shades of grey - into shades of unobstructed moonlight, dripping with liquid fire. Maybe in the end, the irresistible force meets the immovable object and the confused gives way to the coherent - the grey dissolves, into nothing, into something. Dare I say, there are paths we have not crossed until we are made to cross them - paths of soft sand and hushed whispers. Maybe in the end, the circus comes to life and the shadows retreat giving way to the fantastic, the eerie and dynamic thunder.
As the descent continues, perhaps we change - we adapt to a weary state of shades of grey and their circumstances.
Authors Note: Interestingly the above came to me as I was looking at some black and white pictures of certain poets. Their poses and facial features seemed content, maybe even blissful. Compelled me to write.
As the descent continues, perhaps we change - we adapt to a weary state of shades of grey and their circumstances.
Authors Note: Interestingly the above came to me as I was looking at some black and white pictures of certain poets. Their poses and facial features seemed content, maybe even blissful. Compelled me to write.
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