so much dust settling in
so much matter resting here
I picked up a stone
from lands afar and times away
it fills up my head
cradles into my hand
defying
time
French version in vivre libre
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trips
Poetrytalking about trips don't trip don't move don't groove sitting in street poverty such cross nailing you down in the tomb of lost paradise eating at your brain your eyes your infinite holes piercing the guts of well-fed bourgeoisie never gave you...
