We watch, we walk, we breathe, we stop
we walk, we breathe, we walk, we stop,
we breathe, we breathe,        we breathe,                   we stop.nothing seems to move, as we meander through the forest
nothing seems to seems to echo, but our distant fleshwe labour to capture it all as we fumble with the unsteady tripod in the mud, fix the camera on top and record the movement, the stillness of the scenewe labour to capture the atmosphere, the one that is now, and the ones that have been, before the paths to our memories are overgrown and not even a speck is left of what our eyes had once seenthere are things I want to know but fear to ask
and only silent conversations are exchanged, patched with nostalgia
but through the nostalgia I am more aware of what is left, than what is left behind.          time.he had been walking in the forest
when he felt a pang in his chest
the next month, he was dead.        time.as he tells me the story,
i listen to him, as if it is the last time
he sits on the edge of the bed
the dimming sunlight flooding in

the dimming sunlight flooding in

he sits on the edge of the bed

i listen to him, as if it is the last time

we keep walking, by the patches of ocean folded over the coast
the oceans of sand swallowed up crevices
a passing line of geese, a sudden stirring in their flight

we follow the creases in the landscape
the wind colliding with trees
the rain walked over us, creating its own shadows as we moved

we hold on to one another,
the balance slowly lifting
slowly weighing

the shape of our thoughts is all i have left
the stillness of a movement

i don’t mean to scare you,
but i am,                        i am  scared

save us i ask him, save us from time.