Approach

Inside, the battle rages in bloody sunsets and eye-tearing morning cracks of shine and it encircles time like a dark halo over my lifeline here on this soil, this circle, this point amid great spaces. Actions break molds of atrophy and apologetic lockjaw when words can't paint, and feelings have molded, and intention is lost somwhere in translation like a joke gone wrong. The movements and physical manipulations and creation from the bodily hands carry my beaten insides, my mislead heart, my disfigured brain, my polluted soul...carries what is me onward. The form I reside inside tires, here it rests on the back of my rusty truck, and uses my rheumy eyes to seek the sliced edge of fading light, the radiance of the moon, closes lids over sight to feel that trickle breeze whispering across my creased face, hears the soft pulse of the calming inertia rise forth. The body recuperates now, to briefly sustain the disjointed collage of me, in this foreshadowing sensation...in the clawing approach of night.