Five fifty-nine is my favourite time -- especially when the trees glow red in the blackened sky. For the first time, a star was more rebellious than I was.
Bottle caps on the ground don't matter as much as the waste that I need to get rid of; careless laundry in the sand can seek attention elsewhere. The filth is now a part of me, but there remain tiny hopes that the sun can disinfect.
Fine lines divide the said and the unsaid, but I listen intently -- lie to me. The tears that the concrete has tried and failed to absorb have left behind stains of disappointment on cheeks that cannot decide how old they are; a divergent mental age can be a severe impediment to a judicious rebel.
Today's sunrise has been a bad Photoshop job -- even the crows found it disgusting. In conclusion, sunrises mean shit if you share them with the wrong people: clever folks just want to watch things burn.
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment
Speak and you will be heard.