"metronomic" poems
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.
The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.
A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.
© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
I once thought love
meant a trite Romantic metaphor --
"A bird that soared above some far-off shore" --
calling gently among the metronomic whispers of the waves,
casting a fleeting shadow on sun-kissed sand
where sea spray mingles with the scent of seaweed.
But after four weeks' absence
and the silence of those thirty days,
I saw, while in traffic,
a flock of seagulls
drifting lazily as flies
over the Oakland sewage plant.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
I’m searching for Paradise
Beyond the vast ocean on a beach filled with white sand
Under the palm tree in the shadows of untamed land
Where the ocean tides pave over the imprints of a desolate shore
And the wind echoes around caressing the sun drenched floor
In front of the sea, sparkling from the sun’s radiant light
Waiting to set, and be engulfed by the night
In my hand I clasp upon a cold and crisp, refreshing beer
Looking upon the horizon so clear
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
On an immeasurable plane of green land tangent only to a white mountain range
Where the prairie has been spared from the time of industrial change
In front of the sun as it strokes the horizon line
I sit, while I clasp upon my tall glass of wine
The sky is painted by an array of colors, reflecting off tranquil clouds
Free from the hustle and bustle of crowds
The grass is soft, like long bristles of velvet fur
As the pollen rises from the flowers, it creates an indescribable blur
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
In the big city, illuminated by artificial light
Surrounded by friends in the chaos of night
We trek, pushing through the people infested street
And pulse to the music of an inescapable beat
In the heat of passion, impossible to explain
We pop bottle after bottle of the most exclusive champagne
Under the stars, beneath the glittering sky
Indulging within the penthouse so high.
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
On the edge of the world, perched upon a soaring cliff
Where you can taste the cool crisp air with but only a whiff
As the sun begins to peak out from beneath the earths womb
I pour a drink, full of spirits to consume
The birds begin to sing in metronomic rhyme
I sing along, to count the time
In the twilight hour sets
The new day begins as I’m purged of regrets
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
After an extensive and exhausting day of work
Grueling and toiling for a boss who’s a ****
Breaking my back for the lowest of scraps
Sweating and Striving till my knees collapse
I return to an undersized and meager house
To be greeted by my enduring spouse
Embracing the responsibility of my new role as a father
I look upon the face of my daughter
And within her eyes so nice
I finally find Paradise
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
With obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical
Mutations
As the iridium ball rolls
From eponym to epitaph
Engeneering an epoch diarama
In surfeit metronomic hysteria
While time chases time into infinity
Episodic vagaries celebrate
The metaphoric metamorphosis rising to
Metaphysical majesty as vacuous
As any minutiae will
When abstract vagaries
Become the vagrant epitome
Of a mordant mosaic
Made entirely of the lost causes
Torn from the very core
I surmise
As being the virulent....
.....Tragic and irridescent pieces
Left along the allegorical antipathy
Where those that are left behind
By the stigmatation
Of any irascible involutions
Mired in the mesh
Of scribbles and scribes
Left
After the iridium ball rolls By
Leaving vacuous irridescent
Symbols of epigraphical
Proportions
Stymied by
The obsolescent clarity
Amid moribund metaphysical mutations.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
JIMMY WIMBLETON listened a first week in June.
Ditches along prairie roads of Northern Illinois
Filled the arch of night with young bullfrog songs.
Infinite mathematical metronomic croaks rose and spoke,
Rose and sang, rose in a choir of puzzles.
They made his head ache with riddles of music.
They rested his head with beaten cadence.
Jimmy Wimbledon listened.
2k
There is a clock in my house that is always ticking.
Tick tok tick tok
Sometimes, when I am all alone all I can hear is that clock
tick tok tic tok
hypnotizing me, transporting me to a place within my mind, a place that used to be beautiful and tragic, but now I can't tell which one anymore.
tick tok tick tok
I have began to count the ticks each one reminding me of the time I have wasted
tick tok tick tok
Each second, minute, hour of my life that I thrown away.
tick tok tick tok
I swear if this goes on any longer my heart will begin to beat in the metronomic rhythm
tick tok tick tok
Is no one else bothered that each tick represents one less second until death?
tick tok tick tok
Is this all just in my mind? Am I the only one who is going insane from the--
tick tok tick tok
I can’t sleep, I can’t think, all I can hear is ticking
tick tok tick tok
Its like a time bomb in my head
tick tok tick tok
Waiting to explode
tick tok tick toc
Is it me or is the clock getting louder...
tick tok tick tok
THE **** CLOCK!
tick tok tick tok
IT WONT SHUT UP!
tick tok tick tok
TELLING ME THAT NOTHING LASTS
tick tok tick tok
REMINDING ME THAT TIME IS PASSING AND I CANT DO ANYTHING TO STOP IT!
tick tok tick tok
I pull out the batteries
tick toc tick----
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
Collaboration with Jack
Where oceans dance on sleepy shores,
glistening beneath crescent moon breaths,
counting star drop secrets on charcoal skies
I stare at a horizon, a single shadowed line.... waiting
Into the depth of the distance, my thoughts drift
I know they will find their way somehow
I'll remain here, the closest point to you
my time, my freedom, I no longer wish to be my own
Cast upon these harmonic waves, my desires,
whispered into a sea breeze of flowing dreams,
Become one with a metronomic tide of needed current
seeking a path to your perfect heart and I breathe...slowly
Thoughts and desires now run free, seeking their destiny
the direction, always known to them, yet hindered
a moving course across the ocean, the destination, always you
wistfulness and impatient dreams will become a reality
And of this reality, these distant shores, we shall be together...
not of sun drenched morning awakenings,
nor a midnight sky of watchful eyes,
but of one love on a tireless journey, far beyond every horizon ....eternally
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
Hidden between the oaks and ferns
Where whispers slip amongst the green
Within the darkest depths of wood
There lies a beauty, stone cold sleep
Who never will awaken, lest
That one and only righteous prince
Crusades through the forest maze
And plants a kiss, to grow come spring
Comatose is
Overwhelming
To the wakeful, watchful, winter walker,
Who leaves her there
To hibernate
Continuing his aimless winter wander
Unrelenting
Continuum
No, time does not stand still in dream-born lands
The pendulum
Metronomic
Imprinting wrinkles on her dreamy hands
So she may sleep until the day
Her heart percusses final beats
And leaves the one who finds her so
With broken heart and bruising knees
Protagonist arrives too late
And turns love songs to tragedy
When beauty doesn't come to wake
After twenty eight years in a dream
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
2.19 am.
Another sleepless night in
Clinging sweaty sheets.
Unnoticed by day,
This metronomic ticking
Is thieving my sleep.
It's no use hiding -
My water glass magnifies
The luminous dial.
Ominous red glow,
Like an army on the ridge,
Retreat into dream.
© Marcus Lane 2008
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
You had the truth in your hand
But I guess you couldn't stand...
...the demand...
... of being a real human
So why does your shame
Make it necessary to blame
The others for suddenly being
A stranger
Does that not create the danger
Of rearranging the facts
While jumping the tracks
In your haste to move forward
What could be the reward
For striking such a chord
Of internal discontent
Where your morality is bent...
... To the point of almost broken
While fueling the fires you alone were stoking
I had relinquished the remote
As I felt the chill wind blow
Still I did not don a coat
Out of righteous indignation
Or from forlorn resignation
Although there was temptations
I let you hem and haw - have your say
So you could do it your way
The window view instinctively knew
And slowly dropped it's shades
The window curtains instinctively knew
And dropped... so as one side fades
Going back into the obscurity
There is a melancholy pull
Looming large and weighted down with insecurity
Even in that first moment of triumph
The serious side knew
This was no contest
It was an awakening
While nowhere near sleep
As if the dreamers shuffling steps recede
Scuffing the floor in metronomic
semaphore
Sounding like the best the best the best the best the best the best the best
Continuing as it crosses the room
The best the best the best the best
right on out the door.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Nowadays, when I see the ocean foam
slick the beach like a colossal latte,
when the autumn forests change
their primary colors playing leaf-frog,
when the jonquils fight up through
springtime snow-melt in defiant coalescence,
I remember that last day I saw you,
your *** swaying in those white shorts,
a mesmerizing metronomic heat in pants.
Ordinarily, I would not speak such things aloud,
but then, regret tends to amplify
walking empty streets at night
with only icy stares from stars to reprove me.
Eventually, I'll slumber beneath my satin comforter,
and dreams will dance like the aurora
at the foot of my half-empty bed.
It's then I'll see those legs again,
emerging from the white cotton shorts,
yet, no cosmic connection will bring
this vision to the woman haunting it.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
And the hand of the clock ticks
In a metronomic beat
Every second is counted
Another moment passes
Eyes searching around the area
An effort to ascertain
If the expected has come
A bathe of disappointment
Is the welcoming arms
The waiting continues
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
falling into subterranean sleep, I notice such blackness
bypasses a pinprick of light; dreams are avenues
to enigmas presenting themselves as someone forgotten.
sleep laves labyrinths with incandescent sequins.
everybody is strange here, interlocutor commune,
still yet nothing I can understand – better be braille, or
contrapuntal dance, but still you uttered nothing;
your locutionary silence seeks no contentment.
i have never heard such riot
of laughter toss me out of sleep. perhaps it was our undoing,
our deepest, secretive entrails unloosen us in such fashion
worth depicting as obscenely courageous, the width
of arm-span the size of outstretched islands, and stepping into
that particular wideness, are my small feet traipsing
swiftly throbbing in the heat of choosing:
to go or to stay – cyclic spectacle that eschews
dailiness that I know I may have forgotten you in faces
of lampposts, the pared skin of onion, the gleaming washlines,
the white feral on the rooftops, a blank piece of paper,
a munificent Bulacan sky, or any sky at that since
they are all bleached and they arrive not with wind but
with lashes: the color of white that flagellates, that blinds,
that oscillates in space which is then reduced to the
back of my hand: I know this. I know all of this.
we were not naked, yet something
buried in the skin reveals itself disarmed, mumbling
an earnest palaver of questions I have no answers for.
what happened? where are we? should we just – die?
an echoing reverb, or simply a song – a metronomic
carousal of swan-song I have heard before persists
and maybe all this time,
we have been awake, in separate cities.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
I taste rapture in your lips & feel nirvana flood our spines.
A stack of bone lit fire & this day ends, today I should try,
to see into the future,
something waits for you inside, reach in & find your comfort.
Drink heavy & dance, a warm nose carving mistakes into your once supple face.
Leave it alone & cry. Leave it alone for my sake.
Call me from the basement's line.
Save the words
& a change of tone.
a change of pace.
_Oh, dear gods,
we came so close & stand so far,
from that glorious fountain,
from that glorious superstructure of
love & tainted fate.
Stay close & I'll recite gorgeous tales of defeat.
I will
paint your face with the shame of those forgotten,
not in a lonely way
& this is not
the only way to stop these rhymes
of
once again
hearts torn,
one heart torn, turning forever
sleeping on the floor,
wishing your blood flowed through me.
open veins to shreds.
grab me, taste me.
bound by chains.
once undone,
these thoughts shouldn't be should so heavy,
moving my fingers in time with you.
whisper, oh I'm crazy.
But in this world,
in this
dear,
sweet
perfect world,
where you & I
sit
& sing
& commit your face to memory.
Holding on to you.
in you, my flame burns bright,
this pace grows dark as the wet woods cry in rhythm,
thinking of me,
old,
their hearts still racing for me.
their souls transport all loss &
their souls transports heat.
If only I was your source.
If I was your only source,
of light
of shadow & pain
of a perfect metronomic
never ending sometimes;
you'd pass happy.
you'd know defeat,
victory & all forms in between.
& looking back I sense there are words sealed tight,
dates forgotten & stories sans ink.
sometimes,
oh my sweet beautiful muse.
There is a shadow & there is a child
& there is a window
& there is a lord to call upon
when nightmares grab tight
& bullets fly close to this heart
desperation glides across these strings
& a voice is born,
snuffed,
buried
& forgotten in all but me.
killing the self,
waiting for the bars to bend
& waiting for the structure to dissolve.
A ghetto grown & producing
infinite
words &
mistakes.
Clear up my past,
discontinue
& continue to
work on these studies,
take all in stride,
a slow,
pain filled walk.
As mentioned, we came so far,
so close
& retired our passions.
So we ask
how do we die?
& when will we know?
& this change of tone brings
a change of pace.
I feel alive,
I behold what's in it,
what's grabbing
& shaking my soul,
which is,
listening to this power.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC
The land was veiled
and silence exultant -
p e r m e a t e d only by
sporadic
bird
calls
resonating from deep within the frozen forest
where life had retreated,
aghast by the glacial wind.
Cowering together,
dwellings shivered
ephemeral oak structures
bowed beneath
the freshly shorn lamb’s wool that enveloped all,
hastening,
the shearer continued.
You left this night,
without a whisper
of regret
across the interminable,
n u a i g furrows
u d l t n
that ridicule your lifeless,
even features - pitiless,
your sodden soles penetrated the ****** snow.
Impervious to such inclemency
I traipse deep into the thicket,
reminded of how earlier
I collected from this q u i v e r i n g coppice,
no more, no less
than my meagre allowance dictates.
Your stride is familiar,
for it was once mine
with metronomic ease I trace you,
further
further
further
traversing a promontory, I see you,
stood on a limestone plinth
overlooking
shimmering pasture below.
You turn; we face,
unwavering symmetry|
as stained crystals fall red with affliction
caressing the firmament I lace your name with my finger
indomitable,
no more.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 10:54 PM UTC
If I ever have children
I’ll teach them about god
On
Family road trips
In a mini-van
With a candy wrapper carpet
And warm melted crayons
In the seats grand canyons
As the Arizona sun sets
Over the Copper State
Where you could almost swear
It was the red dusted desert
Painting the sky
Rain-less-bows of color
With broken butte brush stroke
Across the restless desert
As you twist around in your seat-belted
Body of eight years old
To the rearview window
Of an AC blasted
Softly singing stereo
Escaping out gaping windows
Leaving nothing behind
But a heatwave
Trying to settle down
Tire teased dust
For the evening stretch ahead
That you think might never end
As if god was using the road as a string
He had tied tightly to the family car
Carving the way though
Salty cactuses drinking licks of sand left by
Dirt devils dancing across the graves of
Lizards
Who pretended they didn't exist
But couldn’t fool the hawks
Who watched and waited
For more than just a lost tail
Or a forgotten story
But something clay
Concretely carved in to caves and caverns
With rock and bone
Something solid to hold on to
But my children need to know
That an existence is a slippery thing
Like the color from the buttes
As it slowly drips off the sky
And back into the sand
Leaving speckles of white
Freckling the blackness
Swirled with little
Tizzles of light
As homage to the desert moon
Whose crying stars for
Coyotes
Howling in time
To the crickets metronomic harmonies
Singing the desert back from its camouflage
Life bursting breath though
The earth cast shadows
Breathing heart beats across the land
That's just been
Brought back to living
And if I ever have children
I'll teach them
That this road will never end
At least not where we expect it to
Because god
Isn’t who
We make him to be
He
Doesn’t string us along a road
But he holds the world on a string
The End.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 12:58 PM UTC
for my best good friend, who I love dearly. thank you.
wild hair reaching for their hearts, she bleeds onto
the paper in runny rivulets like tears shed for the electric love
fleeing to the corners of the earth
off-target but shocked with excess
she weeps among the broken glass and ignores the mirrors
reflecting the afterthought that lies at the
end of each laugh or haircurl
heart thumping a metronomic beat to the hammers
building the palaces gleaming with sweat and preserved with salty tears
secret city under construction
eyes wet with worried incantations
pen scratching plasma onto the trees
hair alight defying the buzzcut season
in love with the sunbeams (and moon rafters)
that float with the dreams clinging to whispers
and everything glows in the haze while she closes her eyes
smiles dancing on the guitar strings
music on the heart pumping the
blood on the paper
and everything glows when she's there
our eyes starstruck on the moon rafters
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
So follow down the twisted paths
that lead us to the aftermath
these fields used to be beautiful places
their beauty's been tainted
they touch like cold faces.
He closed his eyes
he closed his eyes
he keep them closed tight
and he said it was a sign of the times.
We closed our eyes
and we waited for the night
but no one was ever looking
when it came time for Jonny to go down.
I've been thinking of leaving
I've been tied to the ceiling
been awake while I'm dreaming
I've been counting to one
I've been bottling daydreams
I've been thinking up maybes
they sold each other when they ran out.
The metronomic ticking of my watch that follows me
breathes tepid breath down my spine
now I'm ready to leave
these devices used to be thrones
they've crumbled again
I think I'm overgrown.
So follow down the twisted paths
that lead us to the aftermath
these fields used to be beautiful places
their beauty's been tainted
they touch like cold faces.
He closed his eyes
he closed his eyes
he keep them closed tight
and he said it was a sign of the times.
We closed our eyes
and we waited for the night
but no one was ever looking
when it came time for Jonny to go down.
I think I'm overgrown
These devices used to be thrones.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
High heels clicking down the avenue-, women check their reflection in shop windows ....Men comb their hair in the rear view mirror ....Traffic lights reflect off wet city streets ..Traffic cop directing cars with whistle chirps . Occasional car horn , big rigs releasing air brakes ...Orderly metronomic movement .. The quiet morning migration of human beings moving with a precision .. Suburbia emptied into the big city like clockwork , by subway and bus , truck , automobile ...Shop owners tidy up their piece of America this cool October morning , sweeping sidewalks , yawning , coffee in one hand , feather duster in the other , looking over swollen streets , engine exhaust , steam from manhole covers rising into a partly cloudy morning sky...Autumn in the big city , replays itself throughout Mother Columbia this a.m. !
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
I crept into my soul in the profoundest night:
where spectral owls honked and hooted in fickle fright
and tongues rasped out sihouettes-
deepening shadows crawled from ***** mouths,
and love slunk around tattered skirts
in imitation of fungi growths:
paper covered me from head to shin
when I let the shadows thin fingers in!
words assembled like building blocks
men in high-heels/boys in frocks.
In the morning, the sun
scoured my skin. I leant on the devil, standing alone,
he flipped me a coin
like he'd just tossed me a biscuit and a blood-red bone,
as I whimpered into the mirror's torn
shimmering shafts of innocence, where beauty assaulted the black-eyed crone
for salutory afternoon tea,
the pretty boy charging the ugly boy an extortionate fee.
and the devil sang in the metronomic gloom
of departed joys.
I returned to my room,
playing with the boys-
coming intensely as the ice displayed
the solitary if fashionable route to Hades.
.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
I would sing
To you
My love
Could I sing
I would dance
With you
Could I dance
I would take
You fly
My love
Could I fly
But cannot
So
Please
My love
Accept this
Metronomic
Beating heart
In lieu
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 6:01 AM UTC
Green Coleman lanterns hung over the water , craving the humid night , nocturnal creatures bathed in the artificial lights ....
The metronomic crash of breakers on the aluminum hulled vessel , baiting hooks and tying gear by flashlight or sheer memory .. Horned Owls , Killdeer and Whippoorwills filled the dark night with haunting songs , the crash of bass and topwater shellcrackers would chill the blood for a moment , cause you to breathe in deep , exhale out loud .... The aroma of lake water , insect repellent and cigar smoke , chewing on a plug of Bloodhound , strained eyes concentrating on nothing but that bobber , waiting on that tasty fish to take it and run ....
Working your piece of the lake till the early morning Sun ....
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
Your lips move as though they are going hundreds of miles per second-
As though they’re on fire,
the driver is dead and the only way to stop is to crash in a ball of flames
I can’t tear my eyes away,
I watch,
morbid curiosity making me waver-
My mind is swimming,
hands shaking,
my breathing stopped-
Time has stopped.
Your words are suspended in midair
Their arcs aiming for my ears but they miss entirely
Instead, they crash against my face,
forehead,
eyes,
nose,
until I am buried in debris,
In your words and their meanings and I can’t dig my way out.
tickticktick
I'm sorry that I’m not quick to understand
Pardon my pauses,
my fidgeting,
my wide eyes
Pardon the way I twist at my bracelets when your words almost immediately blur as soon as they leave the confines of your cheeks
I scratch at my face because the record needle of my brain can’t find a pre-recorded song to match your pace
So it scratches across the wrinkled pink surfaces instead
And nothing but a stutter and incoherent sentences are played and I’m left to fend for myself
Against your nonstop talking at me because this stopped being a conversation a long time ago
tick.tick.tick
Call me surprised when you say that you understand
That I must delicately balance my medications on the tip of my tongue with ideations that get out of hand
In order to get out of bed the next morning because sometimes it's hard to rise from the grave when the dirt above me is each minuscule thought
That has accumulated over the course of the nightmare that lives in the tension in my shoulders.
tick. tick. tick.
I am alive, but without sleep, I am a lie
With whispers and rumors dancing with my worries across the ballroom that is my mind
Worn shoes scraping up the floors,
rude guests pushing my own thoughts off to become wallflowers
And I dance with a single mutter in a black mask that asks how you’re doing.
It asks if you really love me
as it guides me through a waltz
It asks if you’re lying
as it lets go of my hand to lead me through a spin
I don’t answer a single question as the song’s long, drawn-out metronomic beat continues to reverberate in my head because
tick
No matter how many times I ask
tick
No matter how many times I crash
tick
You’ll be there.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 2:49 PM UTC
paint me this picture, sonorous color
clutching the quiet ****
pressed against cloying scenes,
a loose hand bannering a bayonet.
rivet me waters, and much of the Earth
tightly groping inlands,
thatched in the branch nowhere alone,
is the song of God lullabying cities.
again the whole sky with its keen eyes
manifests a gleam worth knowing a cherub,
and sooner than it is later, when the seasons
postpone their flamboyances, chiaroscuros of smoke,
deceit, uncared for and unheard shrieks bounce off careless corners
and the song of God is but static with little wings clipped
and tossed into vicissitude:
song or no song
bearing a fruition of attrition:
resounding far-away: a comatose of cars,
a scuffle of powerlines, a melee of battlement and tranquil
continually fluster the child
in metronomic dance.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC