Sweven

September 2nd

Race and Relative
Why are we even here? The dull of the drag, the roar of the pace, the stench of the race has never been our place. From relatives, retreat. Sighted by stumpy aunt. Can't escape smug salutations she spits our way. Depart. Neath narrow rounds of steps is relatively relativeless sanctuary.

Sky Eyed
I am sharp arc of heaven. She, a splay of sheerest soul through which all is unhidden. Shapes shift and spirits drift. All dance to find the fire. Insubstantial eyes behold the bottled beast. Descend. Take up the threat again. Quench its warful thirst before it bursts. Flee back to eternity.