The Gazette sign hangs crooked across the fortified cobblestone requium, so neatly tucked away in the sawdust covered attic, awakened by a merlock trespassing in thought. What would I do for resiliency if I did not take hold of sand castles that crumble, insolvent, lacking viscosity, breaking, chipping away at the the rich turmoil created in isolated havoc. So miniscule is the portent, so calm, yet bursting. A bridge that gaps the quandary in velo blue, I hasten to find the trifle, the coat that hangs on a foot print. The riches of mayhem are not the wealth of my boundless intrigue. Is it my encroach in this musty haven that leads me to hear and touch and recapitulate again? A nova of fire restores my tranquility. The remembered is forgotten, to be exiled to time’s dust, a mere pause in my static whirl of consciousness. That I am is not the query. That I was is not of consequence. The tale of the juniper tree in the shadow of the ant hill sums up my pretentious irony of introspection. I am the charity, the resilient metaphor. I am the speak easy gambler. – Sinz
