Deep, the early hours, we wander
Like dreams from here to Yonder,
Freshly cut, the earth feels surreal,
As if we died & life refused to yield
Its hold on our lonely bones.
There's tenderness in war, the
Mother wants the child, my enemy
To return like a pigeon home.
Who shall I tell how the sky
Turns pale blue, how sometimes,
The sky is pink with psychedelic clouds?
Who will sit to listen to my monotone voice?
There's a void in the moon, that it
Cannot breathe us into her spirit
& we think we are the centre of everything?
We wander, lost, climbing stones,
Seeking the distance between infinity.
Here's my collapsed stool–king of nothing,
I rise, I fall, I abdicate my debris
Stranded empire, I empty my bowls
At the ports, dreaming of slipping my knots.
Hi warpedpoetic,
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