Xylographed initials made by lovers over
Yonder in the suburb parks where the human
Zoo keeps them under watchful eyes.
The last 3 lines of an A to Z poem I'm working on.
My head is stuck at the peaks of youthy rooftops
trapped in moving circles and daggers rotting brain.
I hover, gliding above the generated, empty plane, tracing the moving shadows below and tracking the nights that rain.
i was so careful but the lines oh the ever running lines they vibrate frantically, I cannot look away they dance back and forth between both crests of their prison, their XYZ axes gripping them trapping them within definite images between associations and contexts, between gleaming ascent and its tumbling recoil.
The ride hick-ups and pollutes the clouds
filling my scent and descent pulls at my stomach,
gravity yanks me back, pulling on my rope and
laughing all the while.
At first you fear it but then you are laughing and shouting
and throwing your arms in the air and having the wind rush
into your lungs and whip your hair it is so beautiful it is
unlawful it is unreal i cant be seeing this and it spirals and tumbles and shriekingly grinds to a halt, panting.
— The End —