Imaginary people,
riding imaginary lines.
With infinite ends,
and finite time.
Involuntary measures
take place in their lungs.
Locusts burrow deep,
each breath is a hum.
A cadence of cicadas
behind every word.
This truth will save us:
No truth have you heard.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
Imaginary people,
riding imaginary lines.
With infinite ends,
and finite time.
Involuntary measures
take place in their lungs.
Locusts burrow deep,
each breath is a hum.
A cadence of cicadas
behind every word.
This truth will save us:
No truth have you heard.
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