liqour lungs

pity the man who once walked ashe and bone, the god that crossed the sea and walked the ocean's floor that once was littered in color until it caught the fever of the world. the world so unkept above the ever fast skies. its there where he watches, momentary eyes that cross up to the sky in a day-dream that keeps him still. quiet as the trees on an idle day, rooted but motionless unlike the creek-bed that pulls an ear of his to the left first. slow motions, its reactionary. first that ear would twist, then the lower of his broad, shepard like nose to sit even in realization of cotton mouth that had pulled itself from the water-bank. sliding carefully, in his own time across the stones heated by the warm sun as if it lived for such a thing. himself, well you could guess his opinion on the sun based by the fact he was currently settled under a sycamore but you would be wrong. the heat always drawed the past for him, like some sort of half assed sketch he would do when he was two neat whiskeys under, self proclaimed artist of the century he was.

undetected he had been so far, mostly by the snake who still just took his time in going wherever he had set his destination too. borders close, a man dependent and head-strung in rules that cross the idea of leadership and homage. a respect to that, ideally in the word of law and forthcoming of that in ones name. ready to be found with guns drawn and flash-light deposed