Author: scotc

The sweetness of the soft glass,

its waters steeping, wishing it

was faster. The fury of

the mad Bolton Strid, moving forth

and dashing, not dreaming once,

makes soft waters so envious.

The twirling of an insect choir.
Leaf silhouettes cast onto the earth
in a soft swaying motion.
a plummeting acorn,
hitting with a thunk
on the root of a tree.
Hollow steps on a bridge,
the scream of a hawk,
heatwave-esque zigzags
of water,
rippling the reflections
of vegetation.
The feeling of
tightly-packed mud
on your shoes.

The devil stare
of fluorescence.
The perpetual drag
of lights and bells
and a human herd.
A clock that won’t move
and people that will,
fitting themselves into the
next identical box,
flowing toward
the next several vestibules.
The weighted eyes
of judgement and letters
and numbers
and responsibility’s
anchor,
pulling you down
into the mud again.

as much as we’d like to think we have.

You can strip and change our ways, our beliefs, our cultures,

But our minds will always be as undiscovered as the ocean.

A family of grandiose buildings that lean over your frame,
or the delicate prettiness of a sweetshrub after rain?