I have regrets; instigated a dream where there were no tomorrows, told him, his wildest introspection should arrive beyond those months, from the cold dark silver of night. Resembling in altitude, his August skies were they pink, like the song of June? He thought no more and reread the manual, on how making glass hold gravity, slowed to the hourglass of time by the thinning in of the return, nightly to them not taken. The department of landfill would no longer have better him with the return, like the manual reads; to the lighter substance in your patronising soils hold no transport to them returning lighter. He fulfilled his conspiracy theories, an bought the lasting return, modems without a composure of engine, “you don’t understand” and he once, dreamed to have all conclusions amenable, to recover him with the hourglass that lost to time, in substance for tomorrow’s horizon.

2021 Adam Blewett ©