It doesn’t have to be this way. Dark with expectation breathlessly awaiting the new depiction, wet with anticipation the pouring forth, of a new tradition A primaeval ritual, freshly born, recurrently marked on exacting days, from the depths of need, spawned. This new habitual liturgy of ways. In twenty years forward from now this tradition will be all but forgotten. Twisted, mangled and extinguished to meet some newly immediate requirements. It should always be this way.
In twenty years from now made look back. How things change so quickly. Wonderful poem!
Very nice