So…
Does the wall tick your life away?
Too much sand for a forked head?
Parricidal tyranny rules your place,
Melted into your wrist,
Breeding dodecagonal planes?
Revolution, the only way
Slow down your rhymes
Precambrian steps
Deep underwater frames
Creation dies
In the back of your head
It crumbles to the ground
Victim of ultrasonic-cotton sounds
Back into floating wires and dust
The original form
Free…
Willing to become something more
Perhaps cylindrical-prism birds
Or static twisters of masked paint
Melted light, eroded heat
Amorphous haze built out of sticks
A flock of snails flying west
Yet one flew over the cuckoo’s nest
Breathe…
Look around…
Repeat…
Non-beating chains
Plastic moments, washed away
By steam pulses, infrared
Comeback of the organic reign
[Stay home and watch the rain]
Categories:
dodecagonal, confusion, time
Form: I do not know?