The best of narrative drunkenly stumbles along the fence of poetry and prose. Wavering, wobbling, whiskey clasped with nostalgia as, staggering along railroad ruts, the ghastly trees sift only whistles from breeze, and stanza and sentence collide in eager autumn strides. Gilded leaves from maple trees spindle around pastel dreams of August.
And Summer sings, spinning what Spring brings into sunflower smiles. Mountains and valley streams observe with nature, as butterflies decide, as fog, and snow, hail and life hide, in only plain sight. Afraid? Afraid of opening your eyes and clasping hands with the drunken man, for in dreams who cannot fly? Tarry along this precipice, behold the waterfall. Valleys stretched out beneath in scarlet flame. Luxurious?
It is the poetry of prose.
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