Shot off like a golf ball, up right front,
its streak left behind,
held across by the conscious.
Death draws the conscious’ heel
up its shadow,
wrinkled layers of build up show
its past
and its readiness to shatter.
This season still quiet
though set off its hinge,
conscious’ heel, its conscience,
of which only just newly conscious.
Old seasons disappearance
pen, pencil and ink
