Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site


Submitted:Mar 30, 2013    Reads: 6    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   

girls flare white dresses with flaxen hair,

using mirror, glass is true, reflective debonair

we can't be solemn, was the murmur of the crowd,

but now they're all screaming in the trees out loud.

What's the lucid sky doing, in its attachment of bells?

I try to retrive it, but all I can hear is yells.

Zombies are as zombies do, is what they say,

but they can't go any other way all they say.

They just sit in their chairs, staring at the faces,

of what they once felt, robot shoelaces.

I can't derive anything anymore,

in the concept of a life force

the fuel is much like the tree sap,

from a modernist needle.

Long haired men, continue their songs,

on wheel forced carriages, strolling along.

it's legendary, it's implied by the streaks of gold,

it strolls into the medolodic streets, they will never look old

they say concepts don't exist, and maybe that's true

the pyramids just wink, and turn into the night of blue.

A girl crunches up silky wrappers in a star spun car,

distorted by any regularity you may have thought,

bent into a cosmic kitchen, of what you may

Inkyness turns into fuel for hay,

activations are just a computer's say.

Tiredness inflates by a fresh sun's rays,

in the animacy of a spotted oddy,

a sea of no-edge gray.


| Email this story Email this Poetry | Add to reading list


About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.