Like now, under a blood red sky, when the thin film of red tries with success, to blind an already obtuse vision, I sit and mesh with the colour.Or I try to.
Now when my palms are red, a brilliant, gory, magenta red, I sit..I sit on those muddy banks as the water washes away those tiny specks of sand-blurred knowledge across the panorama.
Now when I look at it, the setting sun, the branches, the twigs of the imposing structure of the Eucalyptus, the sylvan beauty of it,now when they make a complete framed impressionist's painting, I wonder if I am a part of it, or if I ever could be one.
I sigh, I wonder as I look into the sepia tinted mirror on the sky.Floating moments and a contour of aberrant times from the days of Achilles' journey stare back at me. The red gets redder.
Queer and warm, it hugs me tight.
And only when I woke up on the streets to the sounds of the distant drums beating in my morphed and marshalled psyche, that I was cold again.
The shortest distance between two points could also be a shuttle cork.
The feathered ones though.