We are under the same blue. We see the same sun. The same moon. The same rain wash over us. The same winter frozen. Then why you are not having the feeling the same as I.
Bittersweet nightshade drips from your lips I want to be coated in your poison spit. My dead skin is datura white, two mad dreamers dancing through the night. I can feel your trembling claws swaying with the foxglove’s paws. Cut me open and I’ll bleed sap, strength of the yew fighting back.
Queues of our lives Are not moving, We are standing in them, We are groaning and we are foaming. We are getting mad, We are getting dead, We are suddenly getting happy, We are waiting to meet a yeti, Or to write some spectacular book, And be off the hook.