Tool

 The obvious blares and I react, careful to contain my observations.

Luscious colors illicit the recanting of memory, into days made whole

The motive of nature, flipping every switch: systems-  GO.

This language is the oldest on earth; the very definition of 'create'.

The palette of Man still lulls these senses, readying the rouge with wet.

How many more days will be spent etching plural meaning?

I do not know. This is the beast of my patterns. Embellishment of the senses.

Hoping to trigger select prey in a fashion that Mother Nature has perfected.

It simply cannot be done; I am not hunting for myself.

Or am I?

There is an existential cadence to where my interest lies.

There, that word again; encapsulating double tense, and, making sense.

The Catholic in me is strong. Aware. Accustomed to control. 

Restraint is perhaps my most powerful tool. Practiced with ease

No matter how thorough the allure of the vice. I am grateful for this.