The tryst with path,
was full of voices of silence,
confronting its wrath and revenge.
Nothing was new,
soft matter divided the winds,
arithmetic of energy,
faced up to its agony of spent life.
Decently artful,
you manipulated the clouds,
its music,
the bluebells went into trance.
The shower laden leaves started dancing.
Half solemn, half smiling
you preached the immortality
of a sick downloaded wisdom.
The golden days had yellowed vision of time,
but mutation was complete.
The masts were broken.
The air was scented with punch and humility.
Adjectives had the advantage over nouns.
