I've been engraving my architecture into your urban iris. You're a legend, a baby laying on a bed of nails.
I twist your wrists and liquid ankles and watch you tremble like the leaves on my spine. Now the pressures breaking and my world is shifting strides. Can you see the underbelly of my thoughts climb the sunrise in your veins?
33.3 history books- they are stacked horizontally and lead up into the cavity of my sideways realizations.
The sulfur city's college professor is teaching lessons on how the earth meets the sky, how all my dreams will be stolen by rockets, taken way up high to Jupiter. And I'll still be stuck here on the ground, painted toes on a clover-field green.
My soul is the essence of atmosphere kissing kerosene. A passing cloud breath kissing your lips, kissing flecked freckles and urban iris.
Now 33.3 shades of much to dim pass your hemlock bones and the sunburst solar powder lacing your lashes washes away in thunder hums and rain blossoms yeild forever.
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