Wednesday, August 26, 2009

a plod

energized by the color of the sky, he takes note of the atmospheric changes. the rain begins to lightly tap out the chaotic rhythum of a jazz drummer upon the leaves. Natures strobe begins its slow increase to eleven and peace slinks into the corner of his mind...as if the storm outside needs to be balanced by his mindset.
the jazz amps up as the wind alters the tambour and tempo. sleep delayed, though not by fear. Fear is not found in him easily. No, he is sprung on by sorrow, the stench of stagnation. the build up, like plaque, causing corrosion of inspiration and inspirative moments. no...sessions! over whelming voices of lateness seek their well worn footing.

Finally FINally they slip as if on oil. timing is, for the most part, beyond us. He'll plod for some time, but plodding prescribed is perfection pending

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