Pressure settles in pin pointing to my next pivot, for the next move is pivotal because my pilot promised to never direct meInto forsaken territory.
Anxious finger tips search for any answers, any form of assurance that this isn’t be my shore.
For in unanchored thoughts wash away the soldartity in the sand, words I wrote become inadequate.
So this means temples beat like clockwork, watching the clock work…
countering would be ideal, but I’ll deal
with this as men do.
Searching the shadows that siloute are rooms through the street lights, just hoping to find ours.