They don know madness
And the sadness sings all holy human excrement when replicas of verses of goodnurnished children mutter
“They’re all people too”
Altering the brown-reflections of thy sunhit selves unto recyclable street-ridden mountains toward their own fat cranium loving,
And the sadness drums the rainy nails of new aged strangers when my own fungi-surfaced heart is scraped off by their own fungi-wearin’ spirits
That dangle nights by the pitiful tails of a nonexistence that hollows out the gardens
And the real granite impulsive mountains, that lay weeping beside me&you&sky.
Comments
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Spectacle
Madness you're creating, only it's not intentional when I read it. It's as if, well- you're a poet.
-Abbs
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