Low, and to what other
diverse daemon thoughts
may like torn from a book
of breaths and lie shattered
on the shore
A glassy surfaced oblivion
unfixed within a quiet stare
Beyond the thick citrus after-taste
of sterilized lemonade,
through the hazy screen of imitation pine
... Lingers a human scent.
This eye,
coaxed and cajoled
like a timid animal,
crouch deep in dark pools
the other eye
a spiritual acuity,
taste a spectrum of color
in a world of black and white
A bitter pill,
to never feel anything aloud...
Savage messiahs,
purge with fire- anethema;
say what you really mean
even if I still don'treally understand it
I think I can show you
how to be real,
when you're scripted
into the part of a dreamer
When we are incurably sane.
It's just a little darker than Wonderland.
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2 comments:
one needs watch the glassy oblivion...
i enjoy how you steer, po.
Heh-he, I suppose one does, as it can become (of one affect or another) quite slippery. Thanks much Underchilde.
Peace,
Po
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