run

to walk in stabbing winds of words and looks that find less then thirty bricks in stacks of quiet thought supporting dreams of quiet forest and roaring river of thirst and hunger for that moment of found which holds the hope of feet and hand in pursuit of day in dark that has crawled in like fog on treacherous marsh where a false step finds falling into an ocean of stagnant glass or branch breaks in grasp as dry and dead in root has found its food and now hungers more for those who call on sky and memory of a child who they once were yet cannot find the sight of new stone to bear the burden of the path towards new song that carries the morning in its subtle waking that beckons all who hear and have a mind to wander


ent yadas ortiin