A new breath tastes like old breath, only the packaging needs change. I am full, not filled with supper, but with a grim attitude for change. Truth be told, the packaging feeds only into the appearance of change, dressed like we tend to adorn our bodies.
Rest is distant from day to day, I know the ridiculous self-imprisonment is a savage way of torture. Unnecessary in all regard. When the packaging goes and the clothes are dropped and the torture ends all is bare. I take to the sands, walking on hands and knees, a fresh seed and bury it deep in the hollow. Will it find feed in this desert? A place to drop into with all its might to press roots from its core to reach into new depths and spread life? What circumstances allow seed to open in desperate
, but quiet spirit to expose freely itself?