Cecil Wings
Sometimes, a fabulous notion
escapes from my wanderlust eyes
as I wake just to see my pale brother
look up from his pleasant demise.
He spies the delight of the heavens
He circles his lips with his thumb
and right as I motion I'm leaving,
he turns toward the house to go in.
This is a poem from a notebook lost years ago - there is more to it - something about absinthe and his belly writhing -
but I can't put my brain on it at the moment. Maybe someday the notebook will show up and I'll finish it properly~
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