trees walking their ways to the keeper of safe centuries
their angel strings still vibrating in the smiles of wan flowers
just a sheet there is on the sand of empty streets
and you lay your empty face in blasty wind
stroking the earth's womb
dark is the day the players cut with bleak fingers
but you shall drink to the sea of silences
YOU ARE READING
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...
