I humbly apologize for my ranting, raving, and general lunical deleriums.
As a left-brained lyricist, I lean liberally and sometimes laterally, to the common norm that persists like a dreaded thread that keeps unraveling in my favorite Irish sweater.
I wish for the feel of grass under my barefeet. Swinging off several low branches, I grasp a choll-vine and gracefully swing through the primeval forest. Releasing, I flow into the turbulent river, for a ride. Rocks swirl under my feet, and a swish of a fan-fish tickles. Over the falls I go, with a splash in the warming pools, I emerge, look up, and smile.