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Sage Aug 7
I wore too many clouds around my neck,
let them cluster
and become uncomfortable,
until they piled on top of each other,
cumulonimbus at last.
Sage Aug 7
the present slips right past me
plummeting straight into the past
and the future swallows the present whole

an endless current carrying my body shamelessly
its driftwood with no real intention
its blinded wreckage with no destiny
Sage Aug 7
the pretty parrot in its pretty cage,
sits all day with nowhere to go
the pretty parrot in its pretty cage,
only speaks when it is spoken to
so still, so quiet, it almost looks dead,
indiscernible from the stuffed
dead birds nailed proudly to the wall
the pretty parrot in its pretty cage —
a living decoration at its finest
Sage Aug 7
The earth doesn’t stop turning,
the sun doesn’t stop shining.  
Rivers rush and
carry everything away.
But the pinnacle under the microscope
refuses to let me feel,
and the last drop of liquor
is always too hard to resist.

— The End —