|
breaking plastic straws
|
The middlefield is calling from Edens' den.
It is neither loud nor strong but
Glistening marks its' woeful trail.
It has eaten noiseless insults and
Can never be advanced along the
Metal clasp again; until vanity.
Long strings have knotted, disregarding
Time until its' return to exile.
Harbouring the past, judgements
Have melted words long due but as
Yet unbidden.
Can you hear its' power song, full of
Welcome and blank paper?
Despair if not, because its' ages are
Infinite and flesh tires all too soon.
Someday unravelment will come to stay
And the bleeding will close
And the middlefield will welcome
The knock of the shaded door.
my fingers breath for you all
|
031010
|
