Let's file this clothing in the closet of most likely
to cover nearly all areas, and enclose things with leads lowered, humidity there and sifting through fibers, to say nothing of snow - it's to pile it there - all of them upon the bed, a stack like laundry, but produced by visitors. They work away at talking, compiling story upon story of a mosaic, a fiber here and there, a check and a stripe, meanwhile a tweed and light, brave nylon, patterned to be light and vigorous, to say nothing of blizzards of cloth, stark nights of formidable forecasts, of, a change in the coat. Boast no more of the cold, or death defying wandering about in the dread of midnight with nothing pertaining to a friend or someone withered from staying out all day and night, frozen to the bone, or the button or zipper - it won't close for never being tested for tasks such as these, trials without equal. © 2016 Larry Ingram
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It's a snipe of time, this walking at dusk,
staring at me - the telltale sign of impending doom - to look at again as though to impossibly slow the day into night, yet never to accomplish show colors, bursts of color. We'll start earlier next time, before the rush, before the dim, the mansions bellow of aging things we never saw before, the cloud of remembrance, never to take back what was gained or lost, never to travel that dusk day again. Let's talk of breathing - rightly, if we can take a moment to ponder further operations - metabolic impulses they are - to train the mind, to move when lethargy says it will come again - tomorrow with likely be similar, but strangely opposed. With another, legs are energized, enlivened, taken another mile a distance just beyond that shadow, the emblem of leaves dead, but living in dusk, in the fog of life, it's there and we can see, how far we should go when we reach the tree. © 2016 Larry Ingram Rolls and rolls of steel, crunching sand, salt or
errant mists of dust, wafting the brittle caverns, concrete scarred, clamoring for attention, although decrepit laborers linger throughout. Place your feet in these, these containers for rifling through life, stratus spheric statements while panting up the path, worn but silent for neighbors dissing friendly exercise, blues and whites fight over sun, sky, moon darkness. A daylight of suspicion, of numerous looks, some kind, some cautious, many taking odds with rational footwork, the most sensible of trainers stating the obvious way to tire of hearing, listening - and of working the body. It's a well known fact that the path of least resistance is truly the path of least resistance, plastic guards drawn as in skirmish, as in a lighthearted throb toward loads of sore muscles, they'll never think of crossing trestles. |
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