Virgin straws of the greenest wheat
Shall turn into hay, inevitably;
What shall I think of myself
Out of this perplexity,
Whether I’m green in the turning or the turned.
A wire you may call me,
An old song, no longer being played;
A wheel-less cart within my power,
But who’d mind looking at the numbed bones, when they can’t see.
I prefer the will over the ability,
An urge over the sensations;
Glass is transparent in dark and light,
What one sees won’t fall within the visible, when one’s ardent on believing in beyond.
~with a love for the nucleic acids, and an inexplicable yesternight.