Self-reflected inner orange sadness

Clean cut and down the middle with ruminations on weary streets and roads made of tears. Rivulets burn canals in the craggy surfaces and only the chewing forces against the wind — a massive beast of amorphous delicacy — take the stir. Streets made weary for lawn bowls sake! They never give credit for the ones who fall first or for those who take the detour from behind and come up through the other end.

Tunnels, of course, are over-rated. All dark and leading one way from each end. Where the other is looking to head in the other and it's clearly a sign for narrow minds. Head long into the spot light at the opposite end with an intent forward looking. Turn around in the darkness bright eyes and catch a spot of bother.

Tunnels, however, move from here to there with not a single movement in between. It's the transit of the smoke and the fumes from the exhaust that carries it all under and through the void of light into the expanse of freedom.

Freedom, here (keep this all in mind), is all but a subjective sense of being and right beyond the essence of privilege. And it's never quite the concept to behold when there is an ever eroding belief in the system, in the cycles and in the heart.

———

Wrong way. Turn back. Keep hands inside the construct at all times.