Forge a head

How little should be let out as to not drown out their dreams, how many drops do not dilute the concentration of their pungent magic that lives only on fresh air and new seasons, tiny eternities in which every-which-way is a fractal blossoming out of potentialities…it seems any rational and metallic words, like screws unthread, useless, may interrupt, suffocate and sever the boundless expanse of the plane, the stretching possibility of entanglement or the greatest good reverberating out from where hearts have shattered and self-heal with the thick paste of time and enlightening the way out or by exhaling

Desires settle into embers before giving into coals where some semblance of rationing will be met and meted out for others to consume as heat. Hands up, palms and face forward, the extremities tingle in the charged air

Where silence is golden

And gold retains its heat, resistant to rust and nonconductive.

Worth less

Than never. 


Painting By Airy, Anna, 1918 The "I" Press Forging, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.