I'm one hundred yards away from a lens into the world
And you are one hundred yards deep into that careless extension
I died over a hundred times reaching for your empty palms thinking they were blank slates
But your fingers remain shoulder to shoulder, standing at attention
Always pointing downward
as the awning to these weeping sleeves
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
I'm one hundred yards away from a lens into the world
And you are one hundred yards deep into that careless extension
I died over a hundred times reaching for your empty palms thinking they were blank slates
But your fingers remain shoulder to shoulder, standing at attention
Always pointing downward
as the awning to these weeping sleeves