Seasons Freewrite

[Mitch]

Y'all styrofoam still,
Don't fuck with my licensed driving in transport and heavy motor vehicles.
Eat you through the tracks of a tractor,
66 horse power, devour your skeleton, spread it in the crops your lost,
bone material, flesh, digested by families.
Grain fed hens brain dead.
My world don't stop.
It turns like the pages of my obituary;
dusty and fumbled through the aweful gaze of apostle sages,
unraveling my past from year 3000 with a rod of the ancients,
that connect my magnetic memories without a pause to replay them.
The cost a cave in when subjective reality is all the laymen
has built his foundation on, is the...
Ineffable; the letting go of everything one has ever known
directly from the petrichor.
Set about the glass house with...
SPORES!!!!!
Attacking the reflection of probiotic medicine deflected,
evolution of polluted specimen with every dose of pesticide to settle it.

The sidelines feel like blankets,
webbing magnetic players into a matrix of enslavement,
to the onset of slightly hallucinogenic euphoria suppression at the accepted self's perceived progression.
Steadily morphing his vision of perfect.
Living in service to a self that rejects him.
Pinned to the curves of the opposition.
Slipping into a triplicate of words that mock its inherited christian religion,
a trinity of absurd caution,
representing ascension,
in some divine unity we all must surely repent from.
Pearly gates are sharp at the tips.
Maybe you can get in... could you escape as easily?
What if the destiny they laid you unraveled from the same tapestry with which your faith increases?
Wake up. I'ts time to smell the leeches sucking the honey from the buzzards feasting,
spreading sporadic eggs through brief contact with swan,
and pelican preying on celibate ponds.
Never having felt the rush of rivers, that dwindled at dawn.
Never known the sea, just the spring from rocks.
And the Winter that concealed its every enemy,
from the babies it feeds,
defending each others needs,
as the precipitation recedes,
providing a time of cold,
peace from the birds that return with the burning of snow;
the wicked witch that saves the fish,
as snow white lays adrift,
asleep as the seed of the prince revives her,
to breathe in again.
The seasons ascend any moral explanation,
Hate and Love are self regulating.
And everything else is to forget or remember.
The pulse is a rhythm that sings you till sentenced.
Wicker flickering September ember,
simmering until the phoenix,
surrenders her feathers to the wax,
the sun won't settle for last.
Cast off.
Catch a fish and piss the Winter off,
Spring is gone,
and Summers just another sappy song,
Autumn is walking,
I could dive, but the birds wouldn't survive the transition,
The bears without bellies would've fell in submission,