Untitled # something or other


I remember

Perfection, comatose and broken;
frozen for a moment, only if forever isn’t busy


I watch, and watch and watch;
until a landslide washes through me; on the front lines
I fall


quench and rest; their ridicule
like fuel, my pyre searing inward

chard to dust, we rise: purified by flame.
fearless and archaic we are children of the fire

burn burn burn

Awoken by stories of sound, slumber held hostage by imagination. A war between two battlegrounds, time and prose lay sacrifice across the terrain, their bodies laying fruitation to the virile soils of thought.

Burn burn burn.


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