tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-177043332024-03-19T00:00:44.456-04:00Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet<strong>Think. Write. Drink. Sad Poetry by Alcoholic Poet.</strong>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comBlogger3441125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-63309878128729559012024-03-16T22:56:00.001-04:002024-03-16T22:56:00.140-04:00The Integrity of Want<p> say their names. silt escaping from the bedrock. a panic of truths drawing insolvent maps. <br /><br />we are mourned. by discarded lovers and absent gods. sandpaper chaffing against the epiphany of loss. <br /><br />no blood. just the arrogant cautions of flesh. as life consents to something smaller. </p><p>now we are transformed. chewed like candy by the remnants of dying wish. <br /><br />time ignites. in a fury of contrition. all shattered bulbs in empty corridors. <br /><br />our words open windows. in vacant rooms.<br /><br />wear the shame. screams that make no sound. <br /><br />the promise collapses. <br /><br />we gather our remaining lies. clowns with melting faces. smiling as they drown. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-50385823063599046182024-03-13T00:09:00.001-04:002024-03-13T00:09:30.914-04:00Sad Poetry: The Earnest Contraptions of Flesh<p>we are quiet as the world moves to forget. <br /><br />our bodies dance to the subtle rhythm of time's dirty engine. <br /><br />while our minds struggle to keep pace. <br /><br />we watch the sky fall. as it often does. <br /><br />confident in our ability to prop it up. <br /><br />but the world ends just the same. <br /><br />we are silent as we put our signatures on the disaster. <br /><br />muted by the epidemic of want.<br /><br />we listen as gravity catalogs its secrets. <br /><br />animals with plastic claws. grabbing at the wind. <br /><br />the end has its tangles. all the simple collisions that turn choices into knots. <br /><br />we debate the ghosts that still insist. scavengers in soiled gowns. <br /><br />still dancing. to music that has long since stopped. <br /><br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-61928045693931294882024-03-06T23:22:00.000-05:002024-03-06T23:22:04.239-05:00Sad Poems: Decaying Motives<p>the crutch whispers. hobbled thieves stumble over each other. in pursuit of why. <br /><br />the taste of how. both sweet and sour. <br /><br />in the seldom anesthesia of touch. we are catapulted from our hunger. worn by choices dense enough to drown us. <br /><br />our voices exhumed. like corpses from neglected graves. <br /><br />raw faces desperate for skin. <br /><br />the monsters more melody than dissonance. the humble catastrophes that bear our weight. <br /><br />the sting of time. the parity of its venom. it's absolute treason. a perfect grief. <br /><br />the fairy tale withers. under the scrutiny of our breadcrumbs. <br /><br />the wolf exhales. <br /><br />confounded. <br /><br />by the doors we've left open.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-51458712279038329502024-03-03T00:11:00.001-05:002024-03-03T00:11:00.129-05:00A Wardrobe of Strangers<p>what was I before I was us. <br /><br />some minor fraction of time strangled by an errant decimal. <br /><br />my lingering time machines still humming. idle catastrophes more skin than meat. </p><p>a quiet apocalypse of orphans and corpses. </p><p>what have I become. <br /><br />a long series of numbers. each preceding sum depreciating into the next. <br /><br />atoms in the void corrupted by life's poison nucleus. <br /><br />thirsty dolls in crowded gowns. <br /><br />what were we then. <br /><br />stiff needles in scarred veins. delivering an ugly medicine. <br /><br />our disease more trapeze than cliff. <br /><br />shattered buttons on little girl's bloody dresses. <br /><br />what are we now. <br /><br />the absurd remainders in an infinite division.<br /><br />broken zippers on permanent skins. <br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-91941430321416500032024-02-28T00:11:00.001-05:002024-02-28T00:11:00.240-05:00Sad Poems: Particle Physics<p> solve for when. swept by the artifacts of expectation. stained in the color of common thieves. <br /><br />we consent to these minor apocalypses. unmoved by the collapse. <br /><br />the world keeps counting. the shattered dolls. as we collect their severed limbs. <br /><br />the distance chokes. on our stubbornness.<br /><br />slips of skin like blank paper. wait for the ink to tell. <br /><br />we spend the coins that remain. after time has abandoned us. <br /><br />listening to the rain fall. from behind the broken glass. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-56649487294566234042024-02-22T23:17:00.001-05:002024-02-22T23:33:03.277-05:00The Names We Give Them<p>she chased the receding folds. endemic conspirators of lust and ache. <br /><br />her fingers soft as she struggled to hold. the heavy corpses that filled her memory. <br /><br />the beginning is supple. a lush drizzle of tastes. addictive whispers daring us to hear. <br /><br />how obvious we are. simple primates in an endless war with conceit. </p><p>blunt knives stalking barren landscapes. <br /><br />the middle is dense. all heavy bones and cracked faces. <br /><br />stumbling predators chasing barbed wire and candy. <br /><br />she counted the remains of her identities. uncertain which, if any, were still relevant. <br /><br />the end is compensatory. a reverse evolution of sorts. an abrupt bankruptcy of want. <br /><br />we are only numbers. swollen in a chaos of strangers. <br /><br />contrarians endlessly knocking on the doors of empty houses. <br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-39706311545058031042024-02-19T00:10:00.001-05:002024-02-19T00:10:00.194-05:00Tepid Fires<p> narrow angles wear our choices. skin folds. the stale vanity of broken men. <br /><br />the lies build their trembling houses. and we paint their walls in vinegar and smiles. <br /><br />the tortoise is lost. discarded by the race. the hare is dead. <br /><br />tell tomorrow to stop counting. <br /><br />the world is crippled. the sky has fallen. <br /><br />turn the ignition on these bodies. choke on the exhaust. <br /><br />time places its bets. on the lonely and the arrogant. <br /><br />the boy cries wolf. fractured machines swallow the remains of the sun. <br /><br />the distance chafes against our progress. <br /><br />the miles undress. shivering advocates of happily ever after. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-50810189886675460272024-02-15T00:17:00.020-05:002024-02-22T22:32:56.869-05:00Sad Poetry: Fickle Predators<p> stolen names fail the surge. we wear the storm. travelers on candy bridges. <br /><br />suffocating in our quiet epiphanies. <br /><br />skin like knives. <br /><br />screaming because our words are missing. <br /><br />the chaos flaunts its colors. an explosion of choices. <br /><br />the pieces quiver. caught in gravity's noose. <br /><br />the obvious monsters polish their horns. <br /><br />touch is a strict accountant. calculating every cent. <br /><br />as the price of devotion steadily increases. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-42486332789605472312024-02-12T00:12:00.006-05:002024-02-12T00:12:00.148-05:00Sad Poems: Assembling Tomorrow<p>where we are. tunnels in the throat of time. <br /><br />who we are. spiders spinning solitude's web. <br /><br />we stand at the end of the world. tempted by the precipice. <br /><br />we kneel at gravity's feet. <br /><br />primates strangled by evolution's threads. . <br /><br />it's the world we know that undoes us. <br /><br />touch's wilted flowers left to rot. <br /><br />it's a pebble in an open fist. </p><p>a lie that lingers. <br /><br />even as we confront the edge. <br /><br />we can only know. <br /><br />how high we are. <br /><br />not how deep the bottom is. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-71986307630921470702024-02-09T23:15:00.003-05:002024-02-09T23:15:00.333-05:00Pythagoras' Paradox<p>it was old before it was young. <br />the face of time. <br />its calloused grin. <br />its tenuous thirst for what we call life. <br /><br />we chase the miles. <br />strays in ragged collars. <br />our leashes cut. <br /><br />we wear the math. <br />a feast of choices subrogating <br />to a frenzy of touch. <br /><br />the machine is assembled. <br />its engine stirs. <br />a beast condemned <br />to the infinite measure of a promise. <br /><br />our fingers keep count. <br />our eyes wrestle with the colors. <br /><br />the fairy tale lumbers through our veins. <br />much louder than our consent. <br /><br />we stab at the protagonist. <br />certain the villain has been exposed. <br /><br />but time is a fickle pendulum. <br /><br />and our stories rarely end as we expect. <br /><br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-36677195664821646852024-02-09T23:15:00.001-05:002024-02-09T23:15:00.332-05:00Sad Poems: Gravity's Contrition<p>something furtive resembling how. <br /><br />obtuse corners in long corridors sing out loud. <br /><br />the kitten's claws are sharp, but easily broken. <br /><br />the king's crown sparkles only when the sun shines. <br /><br />something presumed lost. abruptly found. </p><p>the monsters have their mayhem. <br /><br />the heroes have their blades. <br /><br />but time is still that cotton in our lungs. </p><p>tomorrow fetches its pennies from stale wishing wells. </p><p>the maiden loosens her corset. desperate to breathe. <br /><br />forgetting too easily how fragile every choice is. <br /><br />the victims have their grief. <br /><br />and the villains their perfection. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-30052046123245062052024-02-05T23:31:00.001-05:002024-02-05T23:31:00.132-05:00Sad Poems: A Very Particular Arithmetic<p>how quickly our choices expire. <br /><br />our story told mostly by strangers. <br /><br />spun by the colors of expectation. <br /><br />we fumble in time's empty pockets. <br /><br /><br />searching for purchase on this slippery stage. <br /><br />actors in the sickly skins of love. <br /><br />carelessly naming every stray. <br /><br /><br />daggers worn by touch. <br /><br />dulled by years of friction. <br /><br /><br />little dogs in an oligarchy of skin. <br /><br />chasing phantom scents. <br /><br /><br />time yawns.<br /><br /><br />our lives a series of open graves.<br /> <br />waiting for corpses. <br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-59769788939501635072024-02-02T23:38:00.002-05:002024-02-02T23:38:00.256-05:00Navigational Errors<p>life emerges through a shallow cut in the skin of time. <br /><br />bodies conflate into a puzzle unsolved. <br /><br />the machine is awoken. coaxed by bone and blood. <br /><br />the dead throw their matches. into vacant rooms.<br /><br />the hounds chew on their leashes. as their prey discovers its fangs. <br /><br />we fumble over our maps. <br /><br />caught in the creases. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-4830776705706875982024-01-31T23:10:00.001-05:002024-01-31T23:10:00.159-05:00Dark Poetry: Idyllic Proliferations <p>swiftly time penetrates. burrowing deeply into existing wounds. </p><p>choice the reluctant narrator. as our lives confound us. <br /><br />blood a stubborn piston. that drives the engine. <br /><br />we stumble. our voices swallowed up in its relentless gears. <br /><br />humbled by its power. <br /><br />we calculate life in cuts and scrapes. and the frail arithmetic of love's timeless anarchy. <br /><br />we know that the world ended long before we started counting. <br /><br />yet we still keep multiplying. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-42910649063952701192024-01-29T00:03:00.001-05:002024-01-29T00:03:00.131-05:00Places We've Visited<p> shame the darkness. it knows too much of our desires. <br /><br />we are compelled by trundles of loss. uneven gods groping at the cold confectionaries of time. <br /><br />the sugar melts. a sweet purgatory <br /><br />tear the corner. scrape the edge. those choices race through us. collision after collision. <br /><br />we're tender. all covered in lies. <br /><br />we're students. awash in all these pieces. all our lessons forgotten. <br /><br />strays adrift in the petulance of skin. <br /><br />merchants of touch marooned in a disconnected world. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-65680310005321304092024-01-26T23:22:00.002-05:002024-01-26T23:22:00.139-05:00Sad Poetry: Fouling Metaphors<p> every breath is a betrayal. her embrace. all its fragile monsters. like unsweetened chocolate and forgotten bee stings.</p><p>casual gods. carving paradise from stale coffee and cigarette butts.</p><p>we are an abundance of spaces. with no way inside them. we are a dry cough on the lips of eternity. no cure. only the sharp salinity of collapsing silence.</p><p>the choke of time. all used condoms and barking dogs.</p><p>the pot is always at a simmer, but rarely comes to a boil.</p><p>she bargains with the soldiers. though she knows the war doesn't belong to them. she marks the path with tears. though she's certain it leads to nowhere.</p><p>it's only truth. pretending to recognize her. </p><p>a putrid sniff of how. a frigid burst of when. a manic funeral. the superlative treason of skin.</p><p>the broken author. the spoiled poet. the oblivious artist.</p><p>fraying adverbs drown in the dysfunctional narrative of touch.</p><p>the inexplicable proximity of surrender. the staunch loyalty of flesh. <br /><br />the curious distance between them. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-7892833036054842562024-01-23T23:33:00.001-05:002024-01-23T23:33:00.139-05:00Simple Ironies<p>leave the world behind. we're only abbreviations after all. temporary bridges over permanent voids. <br /><br />time counts in fevers. a parody of open wounds. our skin is loud. but touch doesn't listen. <br /><br />speak softly. seldom questions chase the shadows. <br /><br />distance does its dirty math. as we casually keep count. <br /><br />travelers in empty masks. <br /><br />the truth is a commodity. sometimes a profit. more often a loss. <br /><br />everything is a transaction. <br /><br />ugly animals caught in their own beautiful traps. </p><p>we wear the world in fancy robes. <br /><br />hoping no one notices how naked we are. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-84957498045297605652024-01-19T23:53:00.001-05:002024-01-20T00:08:00.952-05:00Sad Poems: The Cost<p>tabulate the wager. the numbers wear us. </p><p>all the debts this skin has accumulated. <br /><br />warm beds and cruel dismissals. <br /><br />open sores and soft caresses <br /><br />the cost ours to calculate. <br /><br />wear the cold. like a tattered blanket. <br /><br />shiver through the rages of consent. <br /><br />time chews softly on the glass. <br /><br />as we count the raindrops. <br /><br />the world is raw. <br /><br />all scabs and broken skin. <br /><br />we stutter. <br /><br />as all our words betray us. </p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-87585996282279749612024-01-15T23:16:00.002-05:002024-01-15T23:16:00.226-05:00Sad Poetry: The Whims of Gravity<p>say her name. she is the stranger that wears your face. <br /><br />time's jaws open wide. we are the feast. <br /><br />breathe on the glass. let it steal our voices. words are only thieves. <br /><br />chase the silence. as it hunts the strays. <br /><br />paint the stairs. with dirty footprints. the ceiling will come to us. <br /><br />say her name. assume the luxury of her skin. <br /><br />temptation cocks its gun. <br /><br />the target is soft. and the sky is falling. <br /><br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-8753323813675198872024-01-12T22:53:00.001-05:002024-01-12T22:53:00.302-05:00Simple Subtraction<p>wear the creases. turn the folds.<br />negotiate the ugly lineage of plastic gods. </p><p>gamble the caution. of temporary promises. <br /><br />spoil the confessions of sober skin. <br /><br />the lines that draw us. are more pencil than ink. <br /><br />ride the machine. tease the gears. <br />peel the flesh from gravity's bones. <br /><br />we measure time in how little we have left. </p><p>we define distance by how far we've come. <br /><br />we're loud. in the anatomy of our fairy tales. <br /><br />stubbornly accruing our breadcrumbs. <br /><br />but the woods are dark. <br /><br />and all of our scales are defective. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-24900285005938392212024-01-10T23:18:00.009-05:002024-01-10T23:18:00.158-05:00Sad Poems: Artificial Light<p>let the rain fall. tomorrow is the broken glass upon which we tread. <br /><br />time taps a vein and bleeds into our throats. a chameleon. a dictator. and a liar. <br /><br />let the rain fall. hope is the sickness that wears our faces. <br /><br />the machine bites its gears. as the truth unwinds. <br /><br />choices form like icicles. <br /><br />hope is the stones in our pockets. as the flood calls our name. <br /><br />time draws its naps in our skin. a savior. a thief. and a prophet. <br /><br />reluctantly, we let it take us. and we are swallowed by the detours. </p><p>let the rain fall. we're drowning either way. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-15054213863436538192024-01-08T00:16:00.002-05:002024-01-08T00:16:00.181-05:00Several Centuries of Stale Religion<p> no beautiful lies to coddle. nor torn seams to mend. <br /><br />the world is undone in too many places. <br /><br />we are consumed by the distance. patient soldiers with all our bullets on the floor. <br /><br />we are trapped. all the exits blocked. <br /><br />blood comes and goes. all temporary windows in permanent prisons. <br /><br />dolls with faces made of wonder. leaving their claws in tender stones. <br /><br />the taste of god befouling our lips. <br /><br />in the relentless trickle of broken skin. <br /><br />no fiendish pleasures to absolve. nor stagnant puzzles of flesh to solve. <br /><br />just primates gazing into the mirror of heaven. <br /><br />vainly unaware of their own reflection. <br /><br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-16350285846489374322024-01-05T22:45:00.000-05:002024-01-05T22:45:22.482-05:00Sad Poetry: Defiant Sheep<p>take the colors. give them new names. bartering with minor gods. <br /><br />the world is all sawdust and semen. in the jagged nightmares of little girls. <br /><br />time comes in doses. a foul medicine. for a sickness that cannot be cured. <br /><br />turn the gears. left the engine play its hungry song. <br /><br />our feast comes after the music has stopped. <br /><br />chase the thieves. as if what they've stolen had ever really been ours. <br /><br /> surrender. embrace the raw of empty cages. as the key hangs from the lock. <br /><br />swallow the words. fondle the stones that weight our pockets. dare the grief to drown us. <br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-55190699500014248182024-01-02T23:46:00.001-05:002024-01-02T23:46:00.310-05:00Primitives<p> no numbers too sharp. nor brittle truths to dismantle. </p><p>stale shadows wear the strut of earnest pirates. </p><p>torn by the scale of choices. swiftly spent. in obvious conceits. </p><p>orphaned protagonists flaunt their animus. <br /><br />the grin of waiting too sad to overlook. <br /><br />the sweet confessions of ignorant primates. <br /></p><p>the hours chew on our thoughts. until only the bones remain. </p><p>words stick like safety pins in broken hearts. </p><p>we've been waiting so long.<br /><br />sometimes the world ends and we don't even notice that it's gone. <br /><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-21335950141014140352023-12-31T00:11:00.001-05:002023-12-31T23:06:00.452-05:00Sad Poems: Strutting Idiots<p>the world is merely a folly. a tepid riddle left behind. by overexcited atoms. <br /><br />time is a gentle beast. a delicate poison. <br /><br />it tastes like candy, but suffocates like quicksand. <br /><br />we labor on this diminishing stage. stubborn priests stranded in the paradox of absent deities. <br /><br />the world is the urgent scale. that weighs the things that cannot be seen. <br /><br />we trample through our stale dialogues. <br /><br />while gravity gnashes its teeth. <br /><br />the world is the long road upon which we wander. <br /><br />unconcerned by which path we take. <br /><br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p style='margin-top: 30px'>
Copyright 2005-2016 by alcoholic poet.</p></div>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.com