Then time ends. Eyes burn and close. Wounded. I wandered that land.
Making plans. Building strange concoctions of hope. Thee charm. Thee TV.
Thee whiskey. Thee fur cellar as indecent as a beard. From cool to indifference.
Visions convicted and betrayed. Looking from zero point there's all kinds of illusions.
Zero point. It takes all kinds of illusions, this, this, death.
Thee pains don't ease as you get older. Thee hatred doesn't melt.
E thought the hatred would melt. Thee brains get blocked.
Thee drains stray across to bare flesh, groaning at Nature's tricks,
and not even caring for thee moment. Some daze are like friendship.
Routines pulling you away from thee burden of vision.
בכל הבלוגים
שם בלוג/בלוגר
