deepundergroundpoetry.com
the mess
whether walking on the
dangerous icy roads of
love
or eating small Viennise
wiennies out of a tin
whether searching for
a purpose bigger than
then the pale phantoms
of dreams
or losing bits and pieces
of life to the wealth of
shadows
time has no wings, but
still flys like an angry
Falcone preying on
vermin
the beginning of the
end is the ends beginning
and is some kind of sick
joke that only the gods
could understand
flying like a kite with
a hole torn in its side,
the journey is unholy,
and there is no whole
truth in fail safe
destinations
someday we will find
ourselves nowhere
and there be naught
but the sound of
taps softly fading
into the soul of
night
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