|Posted by terminalhip on June 29, 2014 at 8:40 AM|
Roving, Rambling, back alleys- space, the architecture's the same a week might be an eon, Governing, regulated second hand clatters cadence of our motions too bad it's not tempered with the right emotion? Through our strives and our fail ever bright we hail, this our raft plodding mire, the spliter puncture sharp, a drop or two shed as scurried our feet, Evidence falls weightless as minutes, hours consume- it's never the same. . . Combustible soul, fuel, fire, air, that which I breath, bone flesh spirit that which can't be seen, make pyre, pavement grave- keen undertaker- stone and serpent under feet turpentine in glass, neat, fuel, fire air, that's what I breath, a room, a vacant chair, I was there between crouched sheets, leopards laid bare, mostly a glimpse but full on into that tree. . .maybe another time, it was red suicide three weeks of drifting- playing roulette with the spirit, I came up "00". . ..