Furrows
My eyes scan the liquid desert for signs of life in the sad grey mist only the fog caressing the sea as if they were to kiss, and webbed feet and wing tips scratching furrows in the glass upon their lazy lift.
In my silence I can hear the whispers from a thousand empty rooms, careful not to be overheard, the secrets of the sea are sealed by the weight of the misty gloom.
If I could put time in a bottle I would set it adrift,
to sail to another dimension where it does not exist,
all the souls of yesteryear would be saved within its gift,
flocks of winging entities dancing on the solar wind's resist,
white feet and wing tips scratching furrows in the clouds
upon their lazy lift.
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