The Hills of Donegal

Large tufts of grass graze upon winter bleak, like ancient creatures mourning baron land.

I stand on black gravel, sampling the moist air, the scent of moss and growth fills my memories.

My eyes levitate towards the snow capped mountains, they Consume the forever sky in a Monolithic yawn, filling my mind with desire, a yearning to resign from this chaotic life and live upon these stone elders.

The cold soil rears it mythical scythe, stabbing away recurring thoughts and Blades of rigid grass cut away my shadow soul, my demons now layed to rest beneath this cemetery for broken men

This the land of the ever present, it knows no future, nor never has it existed in history, it just is and always will be, NOW.

It takes away my lust, my insecurities, my every destruction.

I'm grateful for this land, the hills of Donegal, a filter for my forever chemicals.