If the application of force
more or less never suits a scene
maybe the time is nigh to run
a poetic inventory.
A heavy fog blankets the old
playground where abstraction ran free
to the point the sense is of mist
leaving little but memory
which is itself like a footnote
as though it was always a fad,
forgetting how sweet was the taste
of the freedom to dive or fly
towards no given goal; flight, float,
good enough reason but not good
enough of a reason for force.
Timmy the Scribbler 