Sunday, October 9, 2011

feverish, mutating and hating my bed

i have droopy eyes, it is halfway falling with a Dali toothpick-prong stand, there is surrealism behind this fold, i see glorious mountains with pine varieties at different elevations, in the morning the air oxidize my respiration, in the evening there are small fires that bombard me like sacrificial incense...

i am walking, walking and walking, with (a ghost of) you, with (a ghost of) myself, they are all the same...

the meadows are humbling, the rocks, the rivers and the grass each have a song, they seem to tell me something but i am often muddleheaded, maybe they want me to be lost longer, to be washed by too much light that i don't see the spot where beauty is the difference, i will find it, you will find it, in the meantime...

No comments:

Post a Comment

Post a Comment