Ink stains,
summer beats,
slowly closing on an ending streak.
Akin to the nature of what we know,
caught up in the whirlwind of
ferocity.

Naturally.

Reach out to the pregnant fruit,
dripping with lavish pesticide and wax.
At least it shines.

Artificially.

Blink,
You missed another.
The changing of a minute to the next
staring at the digitalized numbers
of your screen.
Left hand corner.
Look for it.

Find me a tune that wasn't here,
Or there, or – what?
buried within the sloth of the world
And machines that dribble
out the processed notes of many.

Sweeping hands across paper,
the ink blurs and smears in a haze.
Clear lines that once defined
blurry with the immaculate canvas of paper.
Gray.
Uneven.
Ebullient.

And the power is off.