Twisted glass. Bent magnification, circling a vortex. I plunge my blurred foot into the stream. Everything is down side up and I am barely breathing. My red heart is a sloth beat.
I am suffocating.
Inkwell grass, dandelion jungles, a tidal creature of blue perched atop stone. Paint and prose spilling from his pendular mouth. Pulverize me in your grinding stones. Gather me with the good ghosts, with the shy shadows. Let me be one of the few.
I am fading, the green the grey the yellow the black, the disparate.