The restoration of the dreams of ten years back
slides down my spine as if the whole ladder bone
were the whole ladder back. The disc, this time,
does not slip. I will not give the track the slip either.
There is a notation and this notation is unrelated
to the unrealized flotation of a round, foam, orange
and white savior. Little exponents signal to numbers
that they are more than their numb line. These
digits walked from analog beginnings to the whirring
of today's transparent transistor transactions.
Tiny birds, one all-grayed the other red-headed, float
on past tense to realize their nest dreams next to my
trite night of the scroll. The so-called soul has languished
under the long lashes of fear, batting down the things that
might otherwise have been seen. This day, this hot today,
this ozone infested hour, this is when the commitments
for the wrong reasons are realized in a mind that has
derealized many right directions by left swirls.
Roman Ryan 