Relative Mist

Published December 21, 2017 by tindertender

Autumn MistImpossible they say, but what do they know? Charades is the game they’ve played. Pre-programmed dribble no longer heard, that trance inducer not welcome here. Red sparkles on white mint, advertised as good, tasty it may be, although plainly labelled “artificial”. Hemispheres of the world, in which one do you dwell? In body, in mind, it’s all relative. White dots on a black key, what does it open? Who cares … who shares … An owl in the window. Big round eyes look right past me, seeing something I have missed. No going back now.

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