Your eyes, their photo booth blinks,
are filed PDF's behind my prefrontal cortex.
Parachuting to the moon,
where the gravity god is mortal,
my stimuli float in a sensory deprivation tank.
I practice wearing my isolation blindfold,
allowing all other senses to eat its portion,
SO in time IT fades.
I close my trained eyes
in the warm water and Epsom salts,
my desolate tank of solitude,
And we are holding hands naked,
floating in your Dead Sea.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 10:17 PM UTC
Your eyes, their photo booth blinks,
are filed PDF's behind my prefrontal cortex.
Parachuting to the moon,
where the gravity god is mortal,
my stimuli float in a sensory deprivation tank.
I practice wearing my isolation blindfold,
allowing all other senses to eat its portion,
SO in time IT fades.
I close my trained eyes
in the warm water and Epsom salts,
my desolate tank of solitude,
And we are holding hands naked,
floating in your Dead Sea.
