There are years
that have made touch
sediment
on our skins
we are still waiting
for childhood
one that makes toys of truth
vast rivers of ignorance
bird of drunk chance
in the azure of unknown
we are now rock hard dead lives
from our cavernous eyes:
outside the fleeting world of fantasy
perplexing games naturally there –
we, nevertheless, have chosen dripstone repose
a slow stagnation
the light disappears
and I sense
we were shadows in the sun.
I should have read all of your blog first because this one is my absolute favorite….
“one that makes toys of truth…”
Flawlessly brilliant….