“So let us not talk falsely now,
The hour is getting late”. Dylan
I love the feeling when I’m struck by truth.
Crumbs feed my soul. Bewitched by its spell I see all.
A flicker of fairy lights please – never a floodlight.
A fulsome breeze ushered in by sheer white curtains.
Demanding your lives for centuries or lurking under the dew drop laden skirts of mushrooms..
So how would that grab you? Yes, YOU, my good witness. Brave eyes on wounds.
It IS getting late…. Truth’s undressing….its a swing bridge…the concrete has left..
And the rain came down.