Tuesday, October 9, 2012

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.

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