A drunken, unaligned glide slides across the wooden floor.
With a tilted head, the balance seems to be that of a new born calf,
Immature.
With the slop that so happens to drop from the mouth of the merry man,
His frail stillness is soon altered into a translucent frown.
The only path of visibility, is that of gravities’ down.
And so he does.
Laying on the mahogany planks, the confused and delusional stare
Incompasses every thing and every where
That is visually tangable to the eyes, which have seemed to gradually disappear.
Oh where is it in your head are you free spirit?
A forbidden jungle, acting out upon a timeless adventure into a mysterious temple?
A Saharan drought that dries the eyes and around sand flies,
Pestering the skin.
No, to both.
The current state is lain on a slate and there is only the world to look up to.
A gargle and groan, a confession of loan lingering launches its way from the lips.
A convulsion in the hips arise.
A grasp of breathe.
But none is air.
Toss and flair.
Ungraced fair of hyperactive panic.
Damn it.
Goodbye freespirit.
Death is only the beginning of a legacy to come.
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