Wax-Based Ailerons

They say that the riverbed is the birthplace
of civilisation; (oh, how far we’ve come).
Unchanging the sun bids farewell as our pupils dilate further,
we look upwards stuck in shoeboxes
and other temporal shelters in the bosom of the desert.

Knowledge of Aquila and Heracles herald of obsession; oh
indeed, so far we’ve come; Flowers destroyed in casual action,
(but there’s nothing wrong with that!)
and wax havens become catacombs, tortuous recessions
of purest, white abodes. Oh, how far they’ve gone.

These are the times we take flight.

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In Their Absence

In their absence, the waves swell up at the outer rim and crash upon the shores with sounds unheard of, never heard by anyone. In their absence, flora illuminated itself as it branches upwards towards the sky as if the earth was reaching for the heavens, weeds untouched.

In their absence, the great fallacy of the beauty in isolation crumbles with the turbulence of an impending storm upon our consciousness, and the mystery of the canopy evades any and all forms of perception, in their absence.