Symptoms of the World

Early Spring blossom, white and delicate, like the things made out of paper, that littered my childhood	The outstretched fingertips, the tip of the tongue, whisper	Summer winds blowing, strongly across ripe wheat, rippling darker currents	Time is spent, slipping past the path, following scents of promise
	I am not sure, that I , completely remember	The gentle movement of leaves, the echo of empty halls	And there are some things, that we just, don't talk about
rain and time, reflect back to us, only those things, we choose to recall	Forgetting the rest

multi-media artist: