Sometimes we leave and don’t come back. And when others want to talk with us. It’s like this because. Stamping stamps on while another takes shape. Hello to them and to you. After all, there hadn’t been just one. A young girl walks firmly while watching her footsteps. Each landed nicely placed within the field’s dust. She wanted to know from the spider which angle it liked to build and the spider replied,’From the best.’
We’ll go here now. It’ll not matter because the filled glass will be put away. It’s not for them to do this. When they do we leave. It’s not truth and we know this. Because we know we cannot care about them or how they came to think. Their decision is their own and then there’s more. There’s always more it’s odd that we continue to care. A cob fell from the stock. A boy picked it from the mud and wondered where it came from. He turned and faced the morning sun. He wanted to ask.
His voice wouldn’t let be. The door was closed. Not locked. Steam rose and there was more. We thought of leaves we knew and how to step on them. Some would crack and you could nearly hear them die. If you picked the leaf up, and studied the veins, we saw where they were cut. We felt badly for the leaf and asked, ‘Can we do differently?’ and the leaf did not reply.
We tried to clean the mess. The boy ran to tell the story, but his mother didn’t care to listen. She pretended to listen and he told himself to never forget. If he couldn’t tell his mother he couldn’t tell anyone and it was better to remember to not tell than to tell.