You run away
to a broken poetry.
At the wheel of a bullet.
The dashes
strobe in between
ether and words, a sort of glue
of being true
in order to convey
the physical world as a belief
and in the mirror
the same.
Knights against boredom,
minutes sly metaphors
for having movement,
hours for mocking the unknown.
Yeah,
I don’t see the difference
between the top of the pyramid
and a little clearing.
A fluffy nothing, a seed
touching down in the musk.
Say what you want.
No one is giving
or taking like you.
jam19
Excellent.