white dresses sweep with their whispering hair,
all the glass, joining mirrors, 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 that sky doing, all its whistles and bells?
I try to retrieve it, but all I can hear is yells.
Zombies are as zombies do, so they say,
but it 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.
they 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.
They're legendary, it's implied by the streaks of gold,
they stroll into the medolodic streets, they will never look old.
they say concepts don't exist, and maybe that's true
pyramids glint and turn into the night of blue.
Poking through silky wrappers in a star spun car,
distorted by any regularity you may have thought,
bent into creation of what you may,
Inkyness turns into fuel to stay,
activations are just a computer's say.
Tiredness inflates by a fresh sun's rays
in the animacy of the oddy
a sea of no-edge gray.
© Copyright 2016 pinklunarcurvature. All rights reserved.
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