Slow, slowly, time is treacle and tree sap,
We the waspish, faint breaths twitching
Briefly before our reabsorption,
Our intermingling amongst sheafs and sheets,
Wrestling with thoughts of hollows and privates.

Feed fires with chrysalides,
Cannabalistic pupae run rampant
Through spiderwebs of concrete and ruin
To build the biggest pyre
That they might be remembered briefly
And have their shadows stained
Onto the earth.



By Youthful Paraphernalia


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s