🔵 By Matthew Boivin. Photo by lauragrafie.
Running through years of darkness,
I hear the baying of the hounds close on the heels of chaos.
Moonbeams dance across the floor, of a dense forest like wood sprites after the rain.
The last insanity seems to catch up,
to the wandering stranger as he watches the passing moon beams.
Hounds howl terrible in the forced isolation as a crumbled rock learns to live
as a hundred different pieces in one pile,
all different from the next but same as the last.
Incongruous unity, beside organized chaos of mild dementia.
The hounds still chase, the sound of a runners feet gently pounding the earth with the force of a man running from his life.