Saturday, December 7, 2013

Buffalo Face

Apocalypse is a feeling
                    not a number
                      not a fact
                        not an event
                           nor is it a fear.
It is my mind playing tricks on me.
Delving me into uncertain arenas of the unwell.
Wear a wool coat, breathing mint leaves,
chimes call out to answer heavens hopes degrading out.
A filament sheer, shying seams, dapper druids,
pleaing all the same.
They want food and a place to sleep.
I would give them my sheep if I had some.

I wander out to yonder pastures.
I have been told venturing into the great plains
is a way to walk out into suicide.
Fifty-fifty chances, biohazard romances,
move west or cleave with grievances and
undistributed advances.

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