The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man
abmann

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Churning mosaic

The mist was unintentional. It churned hypnotically, jovially pushing my attention on it's surface.
Because if this
the morning gold is tainted - intentionally tainted -
like a doctor taking the day off in Japan. He should have followed the signs, gone to Africa or some such
dark continent,
where man is more primitive because he lives off the land.

I drop my glass, balking at the array of morning gold and victrics that results,
a mosaic of lost time.
The drops and pieces coalesce
and a face emerges - younger than I last saw her.
Wind. A disturbance,
cherub gives way to swaying waves reminiscent of bucolic country sides
and the hilly nature of her.

No time to sweep the glass, my fortunes dissipate with time.


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