the lost man chronicles

a lull in the grass

it seems like i have not lulled on the grass in one hundred years.

too busily buzzing to be frivolous, i fear to just lie there, lazily, amidst doing nothing, contumaciously saturating the cool soothing plush of the dewy green. anxiously, i am resigned to merely admiring the blurry meadows left behind, the provincial pastures in passing.

it almost seems strange to yearn for the lawn, but perhaps it is stranger that i must long for the simple pleasure of such lackadaisical splendor.

for why canít i merely find a tender moment to recline, to dine upon the inspiration in the breeze; to ease the tedium away by composing and rendering interludes intermittently throughout the day; to repose amongst the wanton ways of weeds, those wild roses of daisies and clover that carelessly grow over and seed color into chlorophylllic plains?

why canít i simply lie in vain and behold the wide white and unfolding willows lining the blue majesty? why canít i just occasionally close my eyes and roll over to dream that i am not simply a weevil that toils inside this evil concrete and steel machine?

why must i be limited to imagining the feral careening of tall blades caressing me with wafts of daftly dancing fingers tickling my sides to and fro?

alas, i know. alas, i know.

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