Unmindful of common things,
The idiosyncratic
Self, unmoored, is hazardous.
As threads become unwoven
They get tangled. Winter, real
Winter is coming, never
Mind how easily denied
The warm before the storm is.
More books breathe inside my head
Than you'll ever read in bed.
The beauty of being dead
Lies in being the monster
Not the one portraying it
As such who's never seen it.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.