Is His To Find

The monks line of sight, lays low upon the horizon, multi-shifting clouds cast long glances, upon the land, longing to stretch its calloused feet, relieving the earthy itch; like a salty brine water, saturates, maybe invigorates, as it commiserates in sobs, casting broad for its sister, the osmotic sea. His naked eyes blur the dark outlines, as he pencils In an apt impressionistic frown, of which he caught mindfully open; the door to the soul, he intuits is his to find, alone In the crowd; like slogging through time; as when walking through the wet craggy bogs of his woes; as the line of site fades in trance, not forgotten, his myths encircle his way.