who knows what I am.
I wander in circles through my collapsed grasp on mankind.
Why we coagulate like blood in small groups, searching for reassurance in the least of these,
impressionable worldly matters, is a mystery inside my wasted thoughts.
those that never make the paper glide unjustly through 1oth dimensions.
more space of which i do not recognize.
"I am but a garment out of fashion"
Shakespearian tongue of but 4 centuries old holds true to my personal meanderings.
You are overdue, and i am withering in the space of which you occupy, only twice a week, when i am lucky.
some days i am defiant of the world, but most days i am defined by what you say to me.
and i write it delicately. thoroughly.
so as to distract your eyes from what i really mean.
I am looking into a mirror. and i see no one.
I am looking at you. And i see everything.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment