He writes invisible lines on horizontal, murk.
Twisting the phalanx lance similar to a shimmering rod
The iron blade edge combusting moth shrimp
As they ride onto a load to gather currency
The coal-burning Noise-whale, a collector
Twists a symphonic of wrench and groan
Under the gargling wail of fuel
As well as pistons, the reflection of The Tired.
They rest hovering topside, crouched
And struck by the whipping lash of colour
The rope wrenches into the horizontal,
Winching the Oxen toward the catch
Winching until nets rip in like horizontal pull
Surfacing up through murk with a feverish shine
And shifting away to naked frailty
That glory The Tired had began to behold.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
He writes invisible lines on horizontal, murk.
Twisting the phalanx lance similar to a shimmering rod
The iron blade edge combusting moth shrimp
As they ride onto a load to gather currency
The coal-burning Noise-whale, a collector
Twists a symphonic of wrench and groan
Under the gargling wail of fuel
As well as pistons, the reflection of The Tired.
They rest hovering topside, crouched
And struck by the whipping lash of colour
The rope wrenches into the horizontal,
Winching the Oxen toward the catch
Winching until nets rip in like horizontal pull
Surfacing up through murk with a feverish shine
And shifting away to naked frailty
That glory The Tired had began to behold.