As the warm stratus ..
surrenders itself to the peeking rays
and there you find yourself..
above them all..
surrounded by greens..
parallel to the floating cotton balls.
then you look down towards the concrete jungle
al..mo’st like placing coloured cubicles
is not it?
i wonder what the smell of wormwood and pine tress does to you..
O’ hast it always driven me the pavements to deja vu
you know, like
the musty.. barky smell..
the beaten paths..
all so wonted.
and..an..d..
when you witness those Bonelli’s Eagles soaring..
soaring and gliding in circles and round
and higher… a n d higher
don’t you ever have this urge?
you know, like
with every effort of teasing your lungs grey
you inhale this strong urge..
to strip down the gist of your existence..
not those typical chronic anxious thoughts
but stilll..inert and serene ponders..
As the smoulder merges into the breathing breeze
it drifts you to a mental empire:
where the itch finds you itself.
all
there..
among those blooming wildflowers
in the rhythms of cricket chorus
the choir of Passerine..
the thunders without rain..
within the cracks of landslip
i have found it audibly
on the birthing rainbows
dwindling post-haste..
right before your eyes.
perhaps like the time ..
pretty much like us.

but that could had been instead but a spectre of the brocken right ?

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