Transpiration
The lamps malignant overhead transpire
steel to stars, and I
floating over silver highway, am
transpiring dreams
to cars, expectations
passing fast into the horizon.
Tell me, do these dreams die?
Does that which seems so living,
fold over settling
into smoke,
or become a supernova,
a host
of a new neuroses-
the black mouth of poems.
Copyright © Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein | Year Posted 2012
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