In a cloud

the rain doesn’t fall, it drifts in, a river on the mountainside of billowing mist.  breathing becomes drinking, seeing through tear glazed eyes, and everythings wet.  sound is muffled, the outlaws out to play.  i hope you find me there sweating in my gear, covered in dust, leaves, and mulch.  when the work gets all over me, i know i did my best.  if i’m grunting, straining, gaining, paining, and veining out,  without a doubt,  remember that a smile on the lips, is a snarl without sound.  why would you stop the singing,  praying, or the braying of a hound just to make a sound?  talk itself is cheap, i am either free or expensive, do please pick one.  like the triangle of cost, cheap, fast, good.  pick two.  or even better yet, none, has the work begun?


The pharmacy of your mind prescribing for my pleasure

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