Sick on the precipice of a change. Fields of dreams, Seldom the heard listens anymore.
Which is why all we do is throw endless thought at the page.
My days are shorter as I sit. Fingers upon a board of lights and the expression tells all.
For the reader, that be you.
Watches words facet and bombard by you apt eyesight.
Listens courteously
Longs to be captivated.
Protrudes your thoughts.
Waits for the inevitable.
A clash of repetitive words. A field of empty promises a spasm which be-fords unimaginable want or need.
Offers nothing for the collectives eye.
Are we listening?
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