The sun comes up and
the day goes down,
down, down the mainline,
escaping to some solace
pressed between the thighs of the sun
and the curls of the moon;
the lovers of the sky
and all our feeble perceptions of time
waltzing behind our dew drop minds.
I press and dry my mind
between stains of earth and
prefabricated wood pulp, dried to a
leafy crisp that will singe with enough friction.
There are no echoes of ourselves
but i have my laughs
with the anthills of our skyscrapers
and the inhuman city sounds.
These things aren't precious,
that's just a predisposed opinion,
but they do exist more than i do.
Even right now i am not here
but something invisible presses down the fabric of a chair
and my soul fills with sorry
for the life it will never have.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 5:30 PM UTC
The sun comes up and
the day goes down,
down, down the mainline,
escaping to some solace
pressed between the thighs of the sun
and the curls of the moon;
the lovers of the sky
and all our feeble perceptions of time
waltzing behind our dew drop minds.
I press and dry my mind
between stains of earth and
prefabricated wood pulp, dried to a
leafy crisp that will singe with enough friction.
There are no echoes of ourselves
but i have my laughs
with the anthills of our skyscrapers
and the inhuman city sounds.
These things aren't precious,
that's just a predisposed opinion,
but they do exist more than i do.
Even right now i am not here
but something invisible presses down the fabric of a chair
and my soul fills with sorry
for the life it will never have.