In the grass that looks like
the fur on a lion's back,
(all tawny and moving in
the breeze)
the candy of your bones is
no doubt a cathedral
for the rest of us tiny
creatures.
Ideas neatly folded in six inch squares or lying on the grimy floor covered in beer mud and regret.. poetry that inspires a dull throbbing pain in the center of the forehead. circular reasoning and deep insight. My only contact with the outside world. a panopticon.
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