unlike the virtuous luck of the prophets cascading down the serenading hills of yesteryear, the years of now are plenty and real with callous hands and distance. like the sunbelt of orion with the light diffusing towards the lack that licks the nape of love, there is a calibrated stance that gives pleasant idolatry a desperate flame.
falling towards like the butterfly kissing realms unknown before you. like the smile of the clouds with little to remove the words from the place. the only difference is presence. the absence digging in letting the chin know that unlike the past the present the future the now the now the now is now. as time gallops towards the last lake, giving romance the tired tumble of promise.