We hold our cares as though a gas-mask in an orchard,
we are free and breathing deeply of the open air divine.
We map our dreams with all the lightest tools of measurement,
so nothing weighs us down when we begin to close our eyes.
Familiar scents pervade the haze that forms the motion,
as we are left to gaze in raw amazement.
Our solid ground was once the bottom of the ocean,
which says a lot for change, but more patience.
We hold each other in the silent air of comfort,
and pay no mind to passing time, lest time be given rule.
The very depth of passion is an eager phosphorescence,
the liquid velvet essence of the summer rainstorm pools.
The eclectic resurrection of compassion and affection split the sect to several sections who proceeded up the walls.
They painted songs and warnings on the tapestries at morning so to witness chaos forming was to wander through the halls.
We map our years as though a rod to lead to water,
we place our faith, and close our eyes, and let it guide the way.
We breathe the heavy air of the intoxicating orchards
like the softest words we offer are the hardest things to say.