Send out the rocket dog, send out the ending. When the end
ends we are all busted up about the death of myth. There’s no one to check if
this hangout is dreamers all the way down. Me dreaming you and you dreaming the
dirt I thought I walked on. And the world dreamed by some blasted leaf.
Oh collection, oh page fraught with tedious wonder. Or is it loss?
Who am I even asking?
Our fingers test the
flight from which we wrest our gods. All days are days of special finding,
and every place a finding place. Can’t all skies look back down at us and
ask? I’m the same light I’ve always been, only I’ve lost everything but my
way.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment