A bubble space around beliefs that don’t fit no more and new horizons seeming impossible. The man on the cliff looks into uncertainty with the desire to jump but can’t quite feel the parachute.
Fading and phasing imprints of obligations and echoes of mumble jumble no longer healthy and freedom grasping at the sleeve. The girl takes to her notebook to write imagination that nobody seems to get.
Dysfunctional society thinking bread crumbs and busy that, busy this; works for the long haul and media makes it so. The child in the living room cries to the tune of an environment run amok.
Walking on prayers when Miss Wheatley got her title with pennies to her name, in hopes of a shift long standing.
An artist in secret, moonlighting to a crowd left in a shadow wishing courage could grab their heart and money can go in the pocket.
Treading on Grace that something good will emerge after the next and before the collapse, when nations suck the life out of all good meaning people.
The boy takes to his notebook jotting down all sorts of mannerisms and colloquialism which make for good material; silently wishing to make a difference
Education to robotic composure set at different degrees to attempt a pose of autonomy. The teacher at wits end peaking at that cliff.
A surrender to something must give and all love prevails as jesus reveals its message in a cryptic style that hurts the brain. Safety net not quite attached
Falling seems better than morphing and stomach bricks allow something to cling to as the nothing swallows all rational thinking to the breeze breaking all doubt
Leaving a shrapnel of golden specks and silver prayers to walk upon.