And so the rain beats comfy in the gut
Snuggled up in itself and rounded
Out like a loud joint creaking in the
Wind that feeds the curls of wayward hair
And births the life of thoughts that
Migrate like enterprising robins through
The ruts of energy that cool the livers over heated blood cells in a maze of
Wicked swirling craves that pace up and down the corners of the cell that sits in the final of the labyrinth seat of real truth
The collection of eaves that make up me that could at any minute exchange space with you or it or they that make up
You or someone and something else into a string of nothingness that is as true, although intangible like the feeing of a
Prayer soaked up on a day when pennies were raining, pitter patter, patter pitter, on the window pane.
Being Every Day 