the way
the fields
collapse away
it's beautiful,
isn't it?
I thought it will
save us all.
a million dollar
painting
for a museum
on the moon
making us
look
like anthills
on the mountain.
this planet
is too dumb
to avoid despair
wholeheart;
and they've
been nursing that
cup of coffee
for ten hours
now,
hoping to reduce
the headache;
but like
cigarette stains
and ink
on their lips
and red and gold
medal ribbons,
it never
does fade.
yet,
the way
the revolution
sings with orbit
and crashes
with lives,
it's beautiful...
isn't it?
i thought it
will save me.
so where did
everything
go?
CITEȘTI
Oneirology
Poezie♦♦♦ Oneirology: the study of dreams. Dreary reality intertwined with nuances of dreamy phantasm; for when my quill is spitting iridescent rainbow mirages instead of murky ink puddles. ♦♦♦
