tangletown dreaming arterial roots weaving entwined, your eyes chipped onyx flecked and flint in the corners windows wide and riding the tall beasts fell to that old beat howl all mouths gaping at how beautiful you are
No. How could you possibly understand? You would need the books and coin-covered eyes to see. Crossing that river that seems a stream and, if you do, you could never look back.
you look skies, but some say prayers over a sea of sand in cities of dust come the ash driven like the snow
A turn of the chamber followed the roar of the gun is all that divides. Or the obsidian’s edge, if you prefer, for that line is silent and cuts the threads fine. Or that final chest rattle in the nadir of night, while kin look on.
Gasping revenants clutching at vapors threading their path through the mists and ways, our hands wither to dust. And for what? The illusion of the infinite when we are but dirt and dust.
We color ourselves with the shadow of our own ash gathered from down there, in the pit. Try to give ourselves light from the shadow, by way of contrast. But few seem to see.
old curmudgeon me feeling aches i disowned back when i was young ”never will i…” ”not me…”
and here we are, with me wondering when i will cane and already needing more sleep reading books and watching tv of people in deeper shit than me because it makes everything seem better
