The other side had washed the riches that the chord of the passing spirit brings, immaterial to what the boy had always wanted. He minded his chores and harvested great multitudes of fervent followers, most importantly, he had encouraged the vine when others may have severed the connection it was building between immature host and influential sphere. We all see so much green when we look outside for the way forward, shedding the millennia of what we have been trained to preen. I juggle synonymous refrain and hardening vials of blood. My complexion that was well-lubricated, passed inspection at the first refinery, now it was as exciting as the choice of butter as a single spread. The neighbor was hammering once again, the bell was never loud enough for everyone to apprehend. I looked closely and determined that some rosebuds are blue, assignment triumphs over the rank of rebuttal. There was a new source of value, a spring fed lake, illuminated just beyond dusk. But who fed the spring, and who supplied the plug? There was an emerging novelty who jumped in pools and when spouting off numbers and names, his head slung and bounced, all of his sounds sung above the wallowing cares of manual operation. It was a good life, and caged animals devoured food around the clock, yet they missed out on staking the boundaries of a kingdom. You are beyond the dust from the drift and the sting of the salty sea. The boy no longer cries himself to sleep nor thinks of napping in front of racing cars. As the keys submerge and escape, so do the hugs that I have to barter with to feel pleasure from removing the junction box, bridging reunion and perseverance. Of course, it is always one day closer to the umbrella of insulation-the keys, the clothes and the house. Until then I pay my penitence, by shoving my fingers and their cause, back inside my mouth–eventually the shovel runs out of dirt and the night sky… out of colorless demand.