When Whittling Perfection

Small shavings appear,

rarest wood

splinters the air.

A misstep

bristles choler.

“Noticias malas” alarming

in the midst of my calm.

I am with tea,

balmy breeze,

beveled brain

and its fervor _

reassuring “la Luna”

in her fullest —

Her finest Hour.

11/16/2019

I am a clandestine shadow wondering if this is the best time to break through the shell and expose those inward calculations, theories, and resolutions.  I am a carving or whittling of self out of earth and element.

I am an alien from another reality visiting a dying civilization, pondering a ray of hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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