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HookstonePoems
Tiny, does the sun go Followed by the snow down Ever as a shower in steam Shallow, goes the systems Out like a fire, rising Sparks and they spread throughout the brain Mythic, misting asteroids are crashing on the brakes Swerving and you’re missing but you’re christ-like all the same Glyphs are losing meaning on displays of melted grass Gasses matronize a pattern, tanning on the mass Squirming, does the chimp go Crashing through the planet Taking selfies with the blood and its core Comment on my face See, stressing for this weekend Acting like you’ve been to space at all before I would be an astronaut but who would beam me back As it’s clearly known that Texas ain’t now on the map Piling into a void, a horror seldom met Practicing a breathing technique as it’s time for bed Forward can we all go Float and look away from The past as none can spin themselves awise Sky’s black in eye And masking in between A passing glance of our in-passing souls demise Mourning what’s a bed of little matter accidents Morning corks the breath in which we sigh its savageness Storming takes the moon across our bodies limp orbit Torrenting that morbid, now red heavenly orphan The tears look dried We exercise Our broken, fated pioneer This sense, this blear We’ll all ascend In death us surely owed a new frontier
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Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 10:51 AM UTC
New Frontier
Tiny, does the sun go Followed by the snow down Ever as a shower in steam Shallow, goes the systems Out like a fire, rising Sparks and they spread throughout the brain Mythic, misting asteroids are crashing on the brakes Swerving and you’re missing but you’re christ-like all the same Glyphs are losing meaning on displays of melted grass Gasses matronize a pattern, tanning on the mass Squirming, does the chimp go Crashing through the planet Taking selfies with the blood and its core Comment on my face See, stressing for this weekend Acting like you’ve been to space at all before I would be an astronaut but who would beam me back As it’s clearly known that Texas ain’t now on the map Piling into a void, a horror seldom met Practicing a breathing technique as it’s time for bed Forward can we all go Float and look away from The past as none can spin themselves awise Sky’s black in eye And masking in between A passing glance of our in-passing souls demise Mourning what’s a bed of little matter accidents Morning corks the breath in which we sigh its savageness Storming takes the moon across our bodies limp orbit Torrenting that morbid, now red heavenly orphan The tears look dried We exercise Our broken, fated pioneer This sense, this blear We’ll all ascend In death us surely owed a new frontier
Finished November 7, 2018
Hookstone
Written by
Hookstone
19/M
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 10:51 AM UTC
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