These deflated eyeballs crave some fresh air.
Millions of sharp an' teeny-tiny needles piercing their orbits,
The Antarctic and the Arctic deserts on the face
Of it, inevitably lost cause. No phase detection, completely unfocused,
Dry-iced, unbreathable place, time, space.
A whisper: "give me a break,"
For god's sake, bon sang! Song sung. Damn done.
What would my paredros say?
Who is my paredros, anyways?
Comments (6)
Nice o read
Okay, that took a turn. Great poem
Good to see you back buddy! This was a bit Opaque for me this morning. Are they bombs.. hope you are travelling well. Sorry I’ve not been much in contact. Just not on here a lot and still working through my crazy. 😊 👍
I have no idea. Do I want to know who your paredros is?
🌷
My hubby loves apples♦️♦️♦️