BREED

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.

 

 

 

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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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