the_waking_world raze clouds creep past the way of my anglicized name while the wind guides a still-green maple_leaf into my gloved paw, littered with lesions but no less beautiful for being bruised by the heavy hands of atrophy. i would lift it to my lips and whisper something worth wearing like a coat ill-equipped to kick against the cold, but there_are_no_words for what i feel when morning stretches out her liminal limbs, straightens her spine, and takes a quick hit of her own oxygen to better know what breathing is. this frond is a flag. it carries the colours of the only country i care to know. 251021 what's it to you? who go blather from