Murk

Every morning every dusk, inbetween suns, inbetween different sides of the mirror, reflecting the landscapes wavy and straight, hardlined reality there plays the death game among the wings and legs and fins and buzzers and scales; create the rippling effect that shakes reality and changes their world and world perception and makes my mind boggle because it happens so fast and so often as the body absorbs the energy created in death, absorbed and gone, beautiful disturbances all the differences lasted only a moment made, captured by nothing, rippling created circles smaller than my eye or larger than my foot plops into the murk to bend the trees made in the placid mirror a little less substantial than concrete and a lot trickier than my own mind where I imagine all this connection between the two worlds, a plane where they go to die and to live, on that plane undulating balancing, what if it all tipped and fell, mixed flushed tossed and distorted no representation hazy image mud and tree and muck and bug smashed and blurred blended lessen confusion and wake would fall from dream in a ripple, my own disturbance.

-- this is my shot at a stream of consciousness