Blurry eyes, not from the sleep.
Dreaming of monologues and rhetoric.
Coagulating into the deep.
Imprints of words overlapping, paralleled on retinas.
It's cathartic.
Other shoes.
And a coffee filter that drips life into your favourite mug.
Observing the colours of sound.
And all with a 'forged in your own name' feel about it.
We think in riddles.
Our thoughts are the ends,
figured out.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment