I plead the dabbler's excuse. This feels more like a sketch than a full piece, but it must suffice for today. There is a fear underlying this, although nothing concrete. The prompt triggered many thoughts. I'm still trying to catch up to them.
Believing in the flow of the world brushes me a little out of sorts
or at least out of the way. Wetting my feet, leaving mudprints
along my way feels squishy and good until the dry crumbling begins.
Other steps without notice break my molds. Flowing with the din
and drang is greener grass unmoored and happy. Trying to skim
the flow catches only green feelings. Attention paid redeems
its discounts in return. Flow moves forward. My eddy seems
As an aside, an American sentence from earlier today:
Direct speech is dead and buried under carcases of abused words.