To move between forest alleys is fun.
Knowing that hours darken before monsoon winds sink in with the grey.
Of their hearts.
Or say,
sleeping on motions that straight hit bogs of death and pr(e/a)y
for survival
or again on another day
whistling the Camus quote and walking into prisons of wild disgrace.
Come roars or whispers , to feign as they may.
You need to pick up a path before it's too late and chant Frost's name.
Someone told me at another time to learn.
To learn to pay.
That you give your all and a knife, and learn still to pay
For the blood you keep and the nights you stay.
Awake. Or in a dream when you drown by the seashore collecting pebbles against boulders. And weigh.
The enormity of life in bits and in colours.
That sink in the fight but remain. Colored. Tiny. Living.
Undead like rocks that float by the bay.