walking in rising dawn
spikes of maize in the maze of thoughts
lands awake to his death
growing on the marbled cover
and he feels the sky
elegantly soothing his hardened soul
hidden completely alone
while the overripe sun falls down
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...
