Soft as the wind,
The lights blow through empty space.
Swirling towards the shore of weighty whites, and wholesome might.
Bellowing with the beast a voice drifts along.
"I take a price, for thrice the evening has bested a good soul. But free is my endless flight."
Quiet is the following and trailing behind is another we can not see. For when sense is good and proper, no mind can find peace.
A place of pieces fit into beauty. May the wind find rest on yet another shore and drift not into silence but into the heart of the earth to turn and sit and morph into more or less the perfect thing.
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