When I left this grey place eons ago
and the sun turned to water under my feet
the sky spit out seven horseshoes
hitting our heads in predictable defiance
and the sand turned to wind
the laughter to salt
when the world opened up
Was it really my fault?
The walls worn under my feet in the snow
who dares think badly back
the greyness left my dry blind eyes
and the haze was replaced with black
the sun sets on a cloudless skyless day
and rises on forgotten lands of warmth
trying to reach down and touch what it lost
too high up now
We’re all too dead.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 9:47 PM UTC
When I left this grey place eons ago
and the sun turned to water under my feet
the sky spit out seven horseshoes
hitting our heads in predictable defiance
and the sand turned to wind
the laughter to salt
when the world opened up
Was it really my fault?
The walls worn under my feet in the snow
who dares think badly back
the greyness left my dry blind eyes
and the haze was replaced with black
the sun sets on a cloudless skyless day
and rises on forgotten lands of warmth
trying to reach down and touch what it lost
too high up now
We’re all too dead.
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