unmade

Today my bed is unmade, like I sometimes wish I could be. Caught and rumpled and covered in the wrinkles of living. Draped from my nature and unevenly applied, all my shadows and peaks aired. Purposeful but un-composed, a stormwall of swirls and ripples and inevitable direction. Letting fly as only the truly loose can.

Time will unmake me, but with the years I will also unmake myself.

-w