A Gust Of Wind

In dreams we see what we can be.

But the ilusion of reality is quite persistent.

The world recovers from the seven days of fire as the scourged backs of the penitent.

Somewhere at the edge of the world.

One thousand years from now

A gust becomes a wind in the willows

The scant of its intensity

Like a brick crashing unexpectedly

Into a window

Always hunting until forced to flee. Lovely.

Always hunting until forced to flee. Lovely.

Even though it's foolish yet silly.

Time is a treasure just spent on recovering.

How do you chase the wind?

A spontaneous combustion of insanity.

The craze of vestal eternity

The rhymes and stories run out