the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Crossing Perspective

Bodies made the sentence,
But the words gave us our breaths.
It was the stench of stale whiskey and past anthems
Withheld in glazed ceramic,
And it was about time to be let out.
The pale yellow-brown sloshed about
As a lion paces the cage,
As we slipped into a warmer stage,
A swarming taste and broken ice
That buzzed about like dryer hives.
Each tessellation told a truth
As sweet as honey and as simple as youth.

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