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.