I don't need to taste the salt
to know it is bitter. Restless
rings on emaciated fingers,
jungle foliage in
increasing shapes of
doing.
What am I doing?
Thousands of words
are written on every
single day. Millions
of sentences spoken
in a million different
ways. Still nothing
sticks like glue to
the fabrication of
supposing.
I am one dot on a
blank piece of paper,
one mark in a
jangled box of
wasted sand.
Underneath my feet
lies the grovelling ground.
Above my head the
lives the growling sky.
Between the two, that
is where I surround
myself with the gauze
of mischief and malignancy.
I do stand, but only roughly.
Swaying branches open like
falling stars and so I
keep the green light
blinking. One day, maybe
even tomorrow, I can taste
the salt and comment
on how sweet it has become.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 5:18 AM UTC
I don't need to taste the salt
to know it is bitter. Restless
rings on emaciated fingers,
jungle foliage in
increasing shapes of
doing.
What am I doing?
Thousands of words
are written on every
single day. Millions
of sentences spoken
in a million different
ways. Still nothing
sticks like glue to
the fabrication of
supposing.
I am one dot on a
blank piece of paper,
one mark in a
jangled box of
wasted sand.
Underneath my feet
lies the grovelling ground.
Above my head the
lives the growling sky.
Between the two, that
is where I surround
myself with the gauze
of mischief and malignancy.
I do stand, but only roughly.
Swaying branches open like
falling stars and so I
keep the green light
blinking. One day, maybe
even tomorrow, I can taste
the salt and comment
on how sweet it has become.
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