a** after 8 **a
These lizards tired sprawl
Wool business suits flap
A clumsiness to movements
Weariness of Time has them trapped
What energy once exhaled
Now parched the evening finds
Thoughts are rich yet tethered
By the falling of pulsebeat
Escape of all to sleep
In the gaps between each word
Mind a tiny nap occupies
And what was or could ever be
Sliced aside and gutted
Roadkill in the private lounge.
No comments:
Post a Comment