The wind blows in cold for a warm May evening. A faint smell hangs heavy on the breeze like an instinct. The aroma of honeysuckle; the weight of memory.
I'm gusted away by the concussion of synapses firing; syntax wiring.
Innocence, sweet innocence lost in the florals of an IPA; in the curls of ectoplasm rising from Briarwood. Fading into atmosphere; making it heavy on the Imams.
They shirk in the wisdom that grows in the Spanish Moss beards which hang from the sweet gums & dogwoods, the stoic pines & stately oaks that endure as the hourglass sands of Sahara sunsets measure relativity.
Nevertheless, they tussle damp on the limbs, ushering Antebellum inshallahs down from Dixie minarets.
Mushallah.
