Flying Colours
Strain tension strain, the firing spree needs attention as I recoil the trigger. Pulling back, forcefully shrugging as the turn of water makes a frothing reminder. The disturbance is clear and reflective of a holding pattern that could no longer last. For not even the greatest can overcome the need to get on with what’s next.
To find away forward through the haze, through the fog, the approach to another water born torture. Exaggeration I dare not for this elusive expression scares the heart and can make you blind. It can ravage the senses and tear out your throat. The singeing of the air way is a harsh reminder of the need to deal and clear what is created between an input to output. Its presence makes the red pulsing race that produces a flurry of flow from systems support. Reinvent, compensate, the extent to which one can hang on. It’s testing each time, each one, each way. Could we, can we surpass to day for it marks a moment, a coming of age.
‘Surprise’, is shouted from behind the door. Move forward, get forward is screamed from within. Plus there is the faintest of whispers come from deep down, down inside the greyness, the shadows. Get forward again filters through and keeps the intending purpose a float. The buoyantly poised hull is driving, spearing and funnelling down the track. Move is an audible oscillation of vibration made from a rasped throat and with a spring like action we are on again.
The collective gathering of everything, is needed, to pry open the compression and boot it into to momentum. The balancing act that is required is a high wire formation with many more parts. It’s like a willing contraption that wants for a heart. To move together like the feathers of a bird all wishing to take off. Take flight to the sky, with high expectations. From the earth’s watercourse we two are one and in pain that we would least forget. Nothing more wasteful than opportunities left behind, but being left is the most painful of all. So we go with careless abandon, we swing open the door with one hell of a kick. It's our answer, our solution of sorts to the impending problem of taking a lead. As an untrained beast looks to savage a victim. It will not become us; no, it will not become us. We will not become the feed, or waste for it takes a certain kind to stay the line, to walk the path and stay the course.
The pressing urgency swells and builds from the accumulated efforts being called upon. Sprung like a bow, stretched and ready with target in sight. Every thrust, every arrow, every sting, every burn, every cut of the blade, and every word is a step closer. Peering out over the horizon is a glorious moment that contrasts the intensity of sensation. Grasping and tightening against the timber is like a bolt of electricity. It sparks a visual recount from memories trained of practices made. Loaded and hung like a climber on a wall we’re looking to crack the nut. Looking to charge down the race, to bash down those self-imposed limits and to run out onto a field of endless possibilities.
From captive to freedom is a release that pierces the sheath, the vale, with filters that now no longer can protect. Expose the core, the dynamics at hand and with an unwinding launch, we throw all we have at it. Throw back to the finish, throw it long, throw it far and as we do the distance glides by. The strain pays us back; it’s a return on investment that will be rewarding-ly found in the end. With lasting breath, effort full we will caress, crossing over the imaginary mark. Not now though, for we have a job to do, a process to deliver, an act to perform and with this we take hold and drive once more. Again and again we will repeat and stick together by hands and our feet.
We know this is only a small part of the game. With each and every stroke a whole new world awaits. It’s like baited breath, enticing, enchanting and all together entrusting. For this and every other part of the puzzle needs to be placed and moved, positioned and locked, turned and matched up for the bigger picture to take shape we must combine. We must believe. We can, we will and with that we pass the test with flying colours.
To find away forward through the haze, through the fog, the approach to another water born torture. Exaggeration I dare not for this elusive expression scares the heart and can make you blind. It can ravage the senses and tear out your throat. The singeing of the air way is a harsh reminder of the need to deal and clear what is created between an input to output. Its presence makes the red pulsing race that produces a flurry of flow from systems support. Reinvent, compensate, the extent to which one can hang on. It’s testing each time, each one, each way. Could we, can we surpass to day for it marks a moment, a coming of age.
‘Surprise’, is shouted from behind the door. Move forward, get forward is screamed from within. Plus there is the faintest of whispers come from deep down, down inside the greyness, the shadows. Get forward again filters through and keeps the intending purpose a float. The buoyantly poised hull is driving, spearing and funnelling down the track. Move is an audible oscillation of vibration made from a rasped throat and with a spring like action we are on again.
The collective gathering of everything, is needed, to pry open the compression and boot it into to momentum. The balancing act that is required is a high wire formation with many more parts. It’s like a willing contraption that wants for a heart. To move together like the feathers of a bird all wishing to take off. Take flight to the sky, with high expectations. From the earth’s watercourse we two are one and in pain that we would least forget. Nothing more wasteful than opportunities left behind, but being left is the most painful of all. So we go with careless abandon, we swing open the door with one hell of a kick. It's our answer, our solution of sorts to the impending problem of taking a lead. As an untrained beast looks to savage a victim. It will not become us; no, it will not become us. We will not become the feed, or waste for it takes a certain kind to stay the line, to walk the path and stay the course.
The pressing urgency swells and builds from the accumulated efforts being called upon. Sprung like a bow, stretched and ready with target in sight. Every thrust, every arrow, every sting, every burn, every cut of the blade, and every word is a step closer. Peering out over the horizon is a glorious moment that contrasts the intensity of sensation. Grasping and tightening against the timber is like a bolt of electricity. It sparks a visual recount from memories trained of practices made. Loaded and hung like a climber on a wall we’re looking to crack the nut. Looking to charge down the race, to bash down those self-imposed limits and to run out onto a field of endless possibilities.
From captive to freedom is a release that pierces the sheath, the vale, with filters that now no longer can protect. Expose the core, the dynamics at hand and with an unwinding launch, we throw all we have at it. Throw back to the finish, throw it long, throw it far and as we do the distance glides by. The strain pays us back; it’s a return on investment that will be rewarding-ly found in the end. With lasting breath, effort full we will caress, crossing over the imaginary mark. Not now though, for we have a job to do, a process to deliver, an act to perform and with this we take hold and drive once more. Again and again we will repeat and stick together by hands and our feet.
We know this is only a small part of the game. With each and every stroke a whole new world awaits. It’s like baited breath, enticing, enchanting and all together entrusting. For this and every other part of the puzzle needs to be placed and moved, positioned and locked, turned and matched up for the bigger picture to take shape we must combine. We must believe. We can, we will and with that we pass the test with flying colours.
Comments