color and sound,
strange shapes gather and
dance to a nameless tune
old when they put the
last prophet underground
Dry angelic bliss
is unlieashed from your
craggy peaks.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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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.