Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Established Granite Sins

In the near future
I will be no closer
to the place
I wish to be.

Imagine a spirit of a girl
sauntering over the decaying
summer garden that succumbs to autumn.
She hangs over the withered leaves.
Her ombre appearance disturbs
the quiet scene of a vacant
backyard she grew up in.

October is a Bomb Shelter

Being alive is burial procession.
A slow underground ooze,
slothfulness for the drifters of dreams
procure all tidings onto me.

If the dove flies with hesitation,
become the magma adoration
we consume in a grand feast.
The spectacle is the demon
trying to beat the heat.

Of course the progress
grooves ever slowers,
a neat kite holder is now a
soothsayer to say the least thoughts.
If it wasn't existentialism, then
I wouldn't know what was.