Atop the stove, there are fireflies ringing tunes of flight, rummaging into jolting volcanoes, cascading the sheer vengeance of heat, echoing the gallows that persist beyond mankind's reach. The planets were humming tunes of resonance. Shower, shower down despair and the secrets of the deepest of woods, the clumsiness of the sea, the upper hand at the storm, the distress in the sea, the heart of a lighthouse. We'd only gain, since now out aching bodies and sullen spirits have nothing to lose. Like a wild goose escaping the nightly hunt of predators, running a rat race inside my veins - and inside yours, the spirally echoing tones of nothing, a vast nothingness occupying nothing at all in a land of everything is too much contrast at a single blow.
The sky is hanging low, as if its spirit is drooling over a stagnancy that reaches far below this world, beyond walls and beyond the enigmatic shower of trivial pain. How they wanted you to swirl around trapezes. The volcanic zeal of amphibiotic gathering, the call that reaches across taverns and tapestries of forsaken hymns. A hymnal silence is grasping the breath today. How the rugged walk across paltry smooth fields would feel deep down the bosom, you'd think, wouldn't you? Vincent, the, sailors and the hunter gatherers, the fire that rests at the core of sedimentary rocks and metamorphoses to spirit when rubbed together....for a while, for a minute...how would that reverberate across gallows? Who calls us in driven dreams and lucidity of sleep? At the moment when the moon touched your skin, as the kith and kin of ecstasy, of faith, of descendance and serenity of the moonlight and the words unsaid, how much and how far did the knife reach?
How much did you bleed, Vincent?
The sky is hanging low, as if its spirit is drooling over a stagnancy that reaches far below this world, beyond walls and beyond the enigmatic shower of trivial pain. How they wanted you to swirl around trapezes. The volcanic zeal of amphibiotic gathering, the call that reaches across taverns and tapestries of forsaken hymns. A hymnal silence is grasping the breath today. How the rugged walk across paltry smooth fields would feel deep down the bosom, you'd think, wouldn't you? Vincent, the, sailors and the hunter gatherers, the fire that rests at the core of sedimentary rocks and metamorphoses to spirit when rubbed together....for a while, for a minute...how would that reverberate across gallows? Who calls us in driven dreams and lucidity of sleep? At the moment when the moon touched your skin, as the kith and kin of ecstasy, of faith, of descendance and serenity of the moonlight and the words unsaid, how much and how far did the knife reach?
How much did you bleed, Vincent?
0 Comments
What are your perspectives?