Nov 2020
.
dreaming,
she sits by the cogs, turning
fog into mist
in midst of an autumn, caught in
arms of abyss,
in her sleepy frost, where her
winter sits,
where her wilderness clots
in melancholic conflict
hung by the clocks, and rocks,
in bones, and sticks,
an ocean's worth of rot, no
mortal can sip,
in her drowsy gaze, in her
dreamy drift;
she sits in her loss,
lost in her solemn bliss,
screaming.
.
dreaming,
she sits by the cogs, turning
fog into mist
in midst of an autumn, caught in
arms of abyss,
in her sleepy frost, where her
winter sits,
where her wilderness clots
in melancholic conflict
hung by the clocks, and rocks,
in bones, and sticks,
an ocean's worth of rot, no
mortal can sip,
in her drowsy gaze, in her
dreamy drift;
she sits in her loss,
lost in her solemn bliss,
screaming.
.
I was sad. so, here's something sad.
