Old ales line the wall, low yellow ball sun die quietly
through the small high box window, in a wall
shadows run, liquid negative soul
narrow, and tall

Doors call, but it is only your mind
see lines of people stand, as they run
magnetic stares speak, lie
lost love, is ever why


The man says, was
eyes wander strange, haze
bartenders blink out of phase
concave hearts pour soul drowning

Unspoken confused art
time is the only luxury
one is afforded

Bent, scattered
forage, musical isolation
cocoons of soaring

All this
an illusion
mist of the forest
see dawn is a chorus

Lost creatures forget themselves
impermanent mind
so porous

See all is laid upon nothing
nothing has no memory
clear being
is here

Bottles of death on the wall
all such are notions are entwined
a radiating eye focus


my trending stories 2

author blog: http://docsuesszueszen.com

Published by Tom Lopes