Little indiscretions echo
across the valleys
that separate our points of view.

The proof is in the pudding
and the milk has been left out far too long

Wings spread wide with a run and a jump to


yet stumbling blocks trip and tear, thrashing me to the surface just shy of spectacular segue to solid ground.

Forte found in fornicated praise.
The search for everything begins and ends in the middle of nowhere, stark sterile no-mans land devoid of identity.