Remember,
cascading,
you are hurricaned,
blown over.
Missing dried pressed clovers
long lost from covers
with clever titles
and famous authors.
The luck fantasy teases the brain in idle.
Tongue fights bridle
with no clear winner.
Innocent buds,
casualties
but teeth suffer longer.
Keep pace on
the new cut path
worn down
from working feet.
Heat pours down your face,
sweating Grace.
The morning says, "...give in,
implode.
Is not within
the great Unknown?"
Growth becomes a strange beast.
Your heart strings ping northeast,
bridle wearing pink
the lip creases.
Save this one fixed current.
Secure it in shallow recesses.
5th September
-Aubrey Byers