124 Readings | 1 Rating
Summer Storm
The ridge of continued drawing
stashes ash to remind me truths
not names cue new venues.
Fast-past the illusion of heroism,
the junction says miles near and far
delay knowing where you’re going.
It’s all a popped star’s throng;
the song started wrong last dance.
I’m tired of rowing from the modern masterpiece,
becoming a blip among other vestiges of attention.
One-two, syllabic static defines the clouds
scoring fallen friends waiting to be risen again.
What’s the point of asking you say, think?
stashes ash to remind me truths
not names cue new venues.
Fast-past the illusion of heroism,
the junction says miles near and far
delay knowing where you’re going.
It’s all a popped star’s throng;
the song started wrong last dance.
I’m tired of rowing from the modern masterpiece,
becoming a blip among other vestiges of attention.
One-two, syllabic static defines the clouds
scoring fallen friends waiting to be risen again.
What’s the point of asking you say, think?
Posted 01/13/12
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