It came upon me one evening.
The retentive silhouette consumed me.
It touched me on a childlike level, free from the prejudices of society.
It moved me on a primal plane, where young roots grow in the barren soil.
The terrain is only somewhat manageable, mere dust becomes a commodity.
Through eyes of past—ever future seeking—I discover the truth.
If this be my beacon, where then do I dock?
For the ocean seems so distant, yet the moisture reminds me it is nigh.
When must I elevate the musty mast? Is the lick beneath my soles?
One is like hundreds—thousands in time.
Moments—raped from existence, Echo in precise stillness.
Reality is shaken—at least for me—for now.
I wrote this poem about a month ago.