deepundergroundpoetry.com
Collage
You got the magic,
which pours from your fingers.
Careful with time,
never one to linger.
Guess what's in my garden bed.
I see the flowers which grow from your head.
Staring into the mirror of memories,
some are terrors, some are whispers.
You're burying plastic people in fake cemeteries.
What would one say,
If all mystic ways were inspired by the contents in a bottle?
Now it's an empty one.
which pours from your fingers.
Careful with time,
never one to linger.
Guess what's in my garden bed.
I see the flowers which grow from your head.
Staring into the mirror of memories,
some are terrors, some are whispers.
You're burying plastic people in fake cemeteries.
What would one say,
If all mystic ways were inspired by the contents in a bottle?
Now it's an empty one.
Published 8th Jul 2012
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