Across the scrub and through the winter's cold.
Through the wind tunnels of our cities we go.
Foraging forward to the promises of a warm embrace.
Then when it appears safe to count.
The whispers from our night mind contorts order of event.
Of what was never to be considered or to be questioned.
What is termed as to be expected?
Is not present in refraction, glimmer and enticement.
Until the realization when all should be questioned and disorientated.
What turns our attention is not what we seem.
As we are desperately unhinged from the stories of heritage.
And so it continues this paradox of acceptance and distraction.
We do not want to be seen through distraction.
However, as the light changes and the whispers entice our attention.
The management of knowing seeps through our figures.
Go to sleep and pass through pulsating dreams.
Wake afresh with new realizations.
It is in unconsciousness we make sense.
