Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Psychosomatic

Tessellations of the same old thing
Like
Raindrops on roses and
Girls in black dresses
Fragments of a time when the world still
Revolved
(You've got to know it's still going)
A crossing of mild destiny
Breathing out each second like it's the last.
Rising vultures,
Rising tides.
Tonight it's the same old thing
Like
Brown paper packages tied up with rope.
There's something off about the entire fiasco.
Suddenly
I'm not half the men I used to be;
There's a halfhearted whisper in the dark.
Owing bits and pieces to a culture
I was never a part of to begin with
Really takes the cake.

Which is a lie.
 
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