Somewhere between Winnipeg and Fargo:
Suspended between the realm of non-being and being, clouds effortlessly roam the great cerulean pool in search of other clouds, other flimsy formations that know nothing but a condensed state of openness. The same can be said of thoughts.
Minneapolis Bus Depot:
Looking at copious amounts of crumbled concrete that is cleverly piled to resemble a mountain range of post-apocalytpic excrement.
Poem:
Every citizen is an illumined star
that intuits the message of the toenail moon,
and yet the Walls persist.
What alienates all our stubborn hearts?
No comments:
Post a Comment