Rippling, warm spring breezes
Melting across my face,
I’m rocking on a heal in the dirt
Slouching against the chains of Reason.
Chasing after the thought, not now,
But basking in a golden abyss between
The conscious and subconscious of thought,
Between the passing of time and its present stationary…
Swinging in the clouds, by the frame of a newborn earth.