Vitriol spews unintended, I know, but it lands upon fresh scratches. If not for then, and what would that mean? Demonstration draws doubt, and distance departs.

Once flourish pastures bloom weeds of neglect. Passing time blowing tops compounds roots already sodden. No beginning; no end: gravity increasing. Path of snowball or avalanche when caught matters naught.

Yeah, though, neither weed nor snow feelings be: one be wild, one be cold, I am to see. Feelings are neither, yet both, and so neither, as any fool would see; then east is west, and hot is cold, accepts foolish me.

Scratch that from my soul, comes the scold; vitriol says why doubt is trust, and trust is doubt, and up is down, and in is out. And over away right here where we stand, and in my own head I am told it began.

For up or down I never do know; 'tis but a guess to me. I ponder my clues for the winds of the day: is she sure she's unsure, or unsure she's sure, then make my guess d'jour.

One does not clear water by adding more muck; clarity comes with time, time is distance, and distance departs.

And as time adds its clarity, the source becomes clear. For though the departure extends, the vitriol was my own. The scarred scratches were my love's.

Learn more about this author, Tom Koecke.
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