There are three types of lock-down. Type one is languishing. Type two is lovingly. Type three is ludicrous. Each on its own can be desirable or destructive. Once implemented there is not switching form yon to fro. Stone etching is as permanent.
Exploring alone will glean insight and instruction. Once I was on a beach in a far-off land west of here. I had no resources to leave, desire to move, or ability to select other options in life. The sand, white and warm, slipped through my toes like four little hour glasses ticking off the duration of entrapment in granular form. There was glee and glasses as we swam in the sunlight and saltwater.
The desire to depart was unknown. The want of tergiversation into ways of olde had vanished form our cranial reserves. Sated on the sand was our stead. Gladly locked down on a nearly vacant stretch of sand in a far-off dominion. Thus was our way, opted in willfully and with wanton need of the environs.
Locked down into love with that person who returns the affection is also done uncompromisingly. That lode of thanks for lust lets one languish in time. We spare nothing to bring what we need to the other. What one speaks the truth to unfalteringly. We could harvest hours of pleasure just in that company. Crave for more as our eyes turn shortly away. Return to look again and be even more in need of the same.
Passing the ticks of time is endless yet unknown. We can pronate here until time immemorial. Or till that time as we all pass on. Further and farther, fonder and for ever. The locks of this jail are willingly left clasped together. The key not sought and the lock rusting over. Glad of our stead in life.
The final lock-down is ludicrous. Un wanted, un willing, un wished for, un washed, and un worked. The raison d’etre and sanctification is that not of our doing, but that of others. Wanton wry wrist constraints, mental or physical are not ours. We posit options and opinions erstwhile denied. Say that which our druthers expect. Unfortunately, the shackles are clasped too tightly to shake.
The key unknown and tossed in the detritus of life. Speed forth and solemnify extrication. We are leaving. Lost and listless. Southbound and slipping the light fantastic in our loins. Get me hack home.
List it as a Latte and froth it up Lily.
Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.
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