It oogles me…
How the mast of a city gunnardcan be turned into the focal point of a winterscapeHow assassins of Persia use the tundraas stepping stones, as jagged urinalsSacharrine fluids dripping from golden trumpetsOne man to rectifyThe bastardous garrisons and the toxic canteensIt broods in me…
Despite the lack of perspiration and energyComes the patchwork maze once againThe scenery vibrant, the watery glossThe weather warm, yet even then the secretshuns of the rainwater deltas find their way homeWhile not more can be said of this enigmaThe man of mirrors, the Darius himselfA return to the shadows can tell a story or two…Or three or four. Back to the market once again
Riverwash is a cryogenic chamber nowRowing sways his efforts to unthawIn sheer bulk, the frosty mast surpassesThe Syllabic Gales…They multiply and cultifyCrucified by the merciless surroundingsOcean breathes – the people of the portWait to catch the storm, unafraid, apathetic.
One can only watch from the deckAs the darkness fades away… Wait for the next day…Bloom replaces texture, brown and yellow.Another year, another flood, another cult hit phenomenon disappoints.No point in trying, no point in waiting.Inside the hut one goes, the turtle hermit for life.
In : Poetry
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