So is it the bell tolling? spreading, spinning?

worlds of lust, parallely revolving, clashing

like insignificant meteorites.


Too long has pretence been cherished, drunk

down with some strawberry crushes, stuck

while the paper-flies flew.


Yellow nights and maroon days, forgetful

the man sits by the hills, unmindful

when it washed down to the sea.


Bubbles of time, captures, audaciously

the primitives of a happy mind, shamelessly

ripping it off its skin.


So is it the man walking? running, sleeping?

the lines and circles, forever falling, blurring

like oblivious shadows.





2 Comments Add yours

  1. wh1skey says:

    there is something in the trail of words here, that leaves you thinking. something that reaches inside.

    1. creepycouch says:

      I intended it, thoroughly. Thank you 🙂

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