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Click here[I was not on any drugs when I wrote this poem. But this poem was conceived while I was shrooming in an arboretum. So, if it seems a bit trippy...]
Pity, in rags
tells me stories
of moons
Killing planets for stars
making midnight
monsoons
I quit listening the
moment she told me
my fate
because death I can handle
not having
to wait
So I spoke with death
whispered silence
to me
As we swam in the void
with
eternity
Death soon got bored
and I fell
into being
Who'll notice me not
with her infinite
seeing
I took off my shoes
in this bare
walls room
I've been here since then
waiting for
the moon
closer ever night
always choosing flight
memories sink my soul
as I wait
I murmur to mice
that maggots look like rice
and try to fill a hole
with empty hate
what a useless
abuse
of esthesia
we are
until the moon
I absolutely love this. Beautifully crafted and brilliantly imagined. An excellent piece of work.