#512 (brimstone and bullets)

Dual processors

grinding away

reality into perfect

little specks of light,

yet never cross the

streams, mine working

on moonshine, yours

the flesh-eating kind

brimstone and bullets.

our feeet up in the sky,

calling on Mr. Miyagi from

our abodes, the paper

wall betraying every

sound, yet this is the

nature of our bond,

your mane is mine to

tame while you are

virtuously catching

every last of my spilled

words, an expert in

excitement. in the end

I always want to rest

my head in your glades

providing equal nurture

the quiet of my shades

a solemn spell of love.


© Matthias Grupe, 12th August 2018




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