overripe, not quite, feels right but stuck in time so slow
underlit, fondly sit, reels shit and sticks and stones some more

I push actively against the fibrous membrane
and the same slow feeling filters down
like so many dying leaves
and sleeping trees
littering the stillborn landscape.

I push harder against the ardous casings
and the enveloping heart comes through
like so many twinkling lights
and waking dreams
enclosing the sublime fancy

I push no more against the wraith-like nothing
and I exist suddenly throughout
like so many budding trees
and bumbling bees
dizzying the latent sunrise