The crows constantly crow like cackling.

And follows a still silence.

A whistle here and there is enough to make it an odd serene.

And I, concerned with time because there is not enough

or sometimes there is too much to pass

and never any satisfaction.

That is what hell is.

But if I allow myself to float up to heaven,

I would be pleased to know there is time and no time at all.

And if I put together a collection of words and put those words in any order I feel,

Happiness orders the words of my world which mean more to me than my memory.

Though maybe it shouldn’t.

Why I sit here and obsess and wonder what will whilst it’s already something,

That is the tug and pull of my insides that allow perceptions of “this” to be a hell or heaven.

And it’s beautiful all the same because it is “that” we live for.

Life cares nothing for being valued nor neglected..

It just is and all the fretting just drones a song to helpless ears.

And so we crow like the menacing black wings soaring against the blue,

Because really what does it matter, all of this?



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