He takes his stroll so far as the landing, an old apprehensively worn wicker stool which won’t hold the weight of his eater’s body
Never could
Not one chance – but for the miserable eyes that attempt to quantify and dance again right near the tumult and might of the felt skyline
He is painting for noone anymore
Not even maybe himself – it takes a darting, daring, somewhat little jovial turn of that same eyeline to suffice
And remarkably attempt to cause the painting brush back inside of the roaring haunted house to move, so he believes it to be
Conscientiously calling him in – by the shape of its eager wet whistle
And the nocturnal notes in his filthy palm ask to be taken to another place, wherein desire and concentration count for everything except for the mistakes that he makes
Wonderful, perhaps how’s about purposeful mistakes this time – the lay of the way and utterly infuriates the size of his knockout soul
His uncontrollable impulses have been taking leave of themselves till he remains not… quite… wired right?
But, go again he shall – till all of the sprinting, squinting colours cease at play yet still run markedly away with themselves
To a rolling place of heavenly scripture and all about to be enveloped and crystallised
In the eye of the undiscovered discoverer
