A grove of bamboo,silent in the sodden hours, languidly stretches and yawns, arms to the warm sun, leaves chattering to thrush, a nest-maker in it's nightly song. This forest of ancient echo lovers, free in fiborous facades to shoot skyward like the steam spiraling towards its dream of star condensation and matter, feels no solarity in it's singular life. For all beings developed from one un-merging, roots sending shoots north, east, south, west, and this is why all our lives we struggle for a rejoining of hands, as the leaves weave together their golden strands, tinted with summer sun and trained against the wan desire to assume that they are one, and alone.
i like the feeling i get as i read this... "lovers, free in fiborous facades to shoot skyward like the steam spiraling towards its dream of star condensation and matter, feels no solarity in it's singular life." trippy!
