fade into the kaleidoscopic spectrum
drums that waft like leaves
bikini snapping on beer fed blankets
wet stone blinking in a cloud brushed sun.
I lean back on a bench
to watch my ghost turn corners
the machine of a cruel afternoon
conveyor belt souls.
Light comes from broken places
to be corrupted
the stained cloth and the shadow
to carve out our melee
the blades of these fragments are enough
and as beauty comes forth from death
so my hours bloom.
No comments:
Post a Comment