The thrum of the world’s outside my
window, shades the sweet melody of the bird’s narratives.
But one mile into my thoughts, and my
knees go weak.
Exhausted by the categorical nature.
Losing out to make a record,
Chimes the aggravation.
Red, red, red.
Wisps of air
Itching and burning—stings
like a film strip.
One foot in front of the other.
Free.
Eleven hours of grey,
And the class crosses over.
A square of us, talk of trips.
Cold and distorted.
No comments:
Post a Comment