The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers. (delascabezas) wrote,
The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers.

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phantom laser-lined butterflies of my past
batter my dreams at night - they make the unmistakable click
of thorax on glass
over and over

i awake in the morning to the psychedelic wingpollen marks
itching on my forehead.
it washes down the sink drain with tartar and toothpaste
into the sewers below.

why are all the yesterdays in warm sepia,
and the tomorrows in Technicolor,
but the today seems like one long commercial break?

where is the magic that keeps me going?
lost amongst the commuters -
it tries to shout at me through the changing leaves of the riverside,
or the light in her smile,
sometimes i read it between the lines
but it is no longer tangible... it steps hollow
like the Claudius' brother dancing at my front door
but never speaking until the cock crows.

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