Mustard sweaters in the Mauritshuis,
scattered ashes at the foot of our bed.
We run, run round in circles,
till the stars drop out of their cat's cradles and into our laps.
Empty paintings and glasses frames,
dozing atop anarchist literature in the back alleys
of some distant treasure island.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
Mustard sweaters in the Mauritshuis,
scattered ashes at the foot of our bed.
We run, run round in circles,
till the stars drop out of their cat's cradles and into our laps.
Empty paintings and glasses frames,
dozing atop anarchist literature in the back alleys
of some distant treasure island.
