These are your instruments; bits and bobs, tatterings and smatterings, the stray and wandering simile. Of withered and dying cells;. A swan song rope of red. Dangling like a slippery stalactite,. Silently growing drop by drop,. Living fingers slowly languishing from disuse,. Waiting for a human hand. To tourniquet the tired process. Of growing a planet from the inside.

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An island stands mountainously,. A back drop for lookers on. A monument to creation itself. The reach lies in wait,. Silent, without disposition or expectation. Distances vary as the lodes. Of the living waters transit. To rivers and streams,. Routes to the sea of commonality. Twins, Kindred, they be,. Of the divine ways they have traveled,. The hapless spawn of intent bringing quieting,. Rioting bluebells in spring, freshening, while.

Forgot Password or Username? We move, we dance, we die. We move, we dance, we die. We move, we dance, we die.

Back to the matter in hand. 8216;These are the currents that chiselled the city,. That washed the clothes and turned the mills,. Where children drank and salmon swam. Forgotten, like the dead. Rising Damp, by U. Which I mentioned last year.