Watching the cotton grow,
in a distance of a mile or so,
the Salamander contemplates the odd refraction, like he doesn’t know,
of the locomotive, racing across the sanctity of the crimson horizon.
He takes hold,
of the prelude, the specter’s vague austerity,
and slithers into the muddy creek, absolved of remostrance,
he knows.
Past the highways viscous hue,
the storm is never far from view,
only sent by radiant vitriol –
the witches’ brew.
Can I handle the rust of the ages?
That heat soaked venom intersperses,
and antiques,
the ramble flow of fortuitous, antipathy.
I am the Salamander. Release me then. I am pain’s enemy.
Darkness weeps, and winter resides on my protocol. Disunion demystifies.
Paradoxically, I walk with guarded anguish,
should the fall of night,
be my last refrain, of hope’s desperate pulse,
of resilience.
I am the blood of twilight,
the shadow of dusk . – Sinz
Our solipsistic journey to oblivion is periodically obviated by momentary glimpses
of surreal manifestations encountered in the pure perception of meaningless beauty.
ehold the tadpole swimming for life in a muddy pothole and perhaps you may see the
opulent glory of unrequited being. – Esinz