© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
Sometimes these words fail to convey a true experience
And their precision strikes as a blunt blade
Unable to pierce down deeply into that . . .
That which turns beneath his chest
That which pulls at his bones
That which hides in the cornered, obsidian shadows
Cast long by a mind locked tightly inside a fragile skull
With a hidden universe of memories and concepts looking out through a lens
Gazing through glass at . . . something he can’t really describe with mere words
© Mike Yost
© Mike Yost
Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2017
Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2017
Photograph copyright Mike Yost 2017
The absence of light
Branches out
Like streams made of shadows
Carving valleys into the landscape
Alluvial fans forever fixed behind warmth
Hidden from the sun
From its own creator
And as fire dives beneath the surface of the horizon
Streams converge into rivers bleeding into an ocean of darkness
Fathoms of infinity floating high above
Only to evaporate
By a deluge of blue sky
A mirage of cerulean
Painted by a morning star
Photograph and Prose copyright Mike Yost 2017