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?

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The pharmacy of your mind prescribing for my pleasure

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