There in, a little boy chomps greedily.
grain by grain, bearing a protruding stomach.
Not yielding to the impending doom strike posing mid-air.
the wind too, as if unsure of this blows hot, sometimes cold.
I own myself.
my soul tastes art and it struggles to embrace it.
My body liberates and I feel at ease every once in a while.
And my poetry boards an old rickety bus on an endless venture while I hold on too recklessly.