It was to be.

"The Moving Finger writes: and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it."


Omar Khayam.

Walk

Mercy, melts like sugar drops in between places warm from strife. We savour the sweet aches and pains friction brings, all our moaning is fictitious. Our hunger for the process is ravenous; we are too busy lusting after the melting mirages to sample the journeys delicacies. Delectable titbits do sneak past our defences and make their ways to dairies, journey logs, cartography immortalised as odes to THE POWER OF TRAVEL.

I wish i was a butterfly.

I saw them Play.

Balancing on the sharp of its pin drop foot, its strings quaking symphony, his head following...Treme tunes Wait for air.

Breath... finger...

Breath... finger... 

Drown the drum...lift the veil, 

Out monster's best foot forward...

All vanity scratched,

Repeated ... Whipping sets, 

Cloud nines, 

Ninja fingers, 

Karate chop lips... Eager ears,

Hand gestures...

Loops, eddies..

All good things must pass but be remembered.