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Oct 2018
We disrupt so  much atmos with words.  
The porcelain  empire of clouds felled with subtracting clatter myth blessing fields of felt
and the skins that dwell there.
Gods angelic casseipia ballroom shunted with klieg lights on industrial green
linoleum hosting junk monkeys mistaking pomade for eternity.  
We are not constellations. We are the dust they leave
when God can no longer see.  
Machinery is our death match with gravity
reclaiming you and me and Sundays.
Robert C Ellis
Written by
Robert C Ellis  Greenville, SC
(Greenville, SC)   
852
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