I am bound by
two brick strings
and a
receipt
of red ink.
There is nothing
about the future that presents this.
Only that which has occurred
to a stomached stirred
preventing any glimpse of bliss.
I'm only calling
the names in the distance.
There's a shift of relevance
and it's delicate.
Those who can't record
the revolution
are too busy
lighting the rooftops
ablaze.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 2:00 AM UTC
I am bound by
two brick strings
and a
receipt
of red ink.
There is nothing
about the future that presents this.
Only that which has occurred
to a stomached stirred
preventing any glimpse of bliss.
I'm only calling
the names in the distance.
There's a shift of relevance
and it's delicate.
Those who can't record
the revolution
are too busy
lighting the rooftops
ablaze.
Request permission to use this poem