| fingers_growing_old | ||
| Doar |
the white paperfilled with double agents, the sticky note filled in nearness, a smiple four lights conveying connection, the jaws wide, and the burning of oblivion. Consider the cost of circular encryption, the emptiness of disconnet, strange parallels when the paper is too far from the pen. The legs I see, And the potential for fire before me, grasps my hand, moves, and leaves. My wrists rest, unbound now, segmented in a new poet's fury. Pale I seem, honouring each phrase, they are determined to invade. Violence with mediocrity is a passing frame, Suffuse my soul, please. The drops, the fades, the backbeats and the hearts. Let me remember these hearts, these little tears, So that I can swim again. |
070921 |
| ... | ||
| pete | . | 070921 |