Beauty too valued
Order too. Lustily
My mind breaks
Dashed upon preceding,
Receding
Foundations
It is with great guilt
That I recommend
Volcanic redistribution
Deluge of pyroclastics
Like the plastics
In the belly of
The world,
Crying out for mercy
Mercy
Like or as
The willow's tender touch on my
Temples. of time,
of space,
and everything between them
Before it burns up, immolation-style
How could we
...
How could we not?
Posted by Hans Andersen | at 1:36 PM | 0 comments
My sea
The way I see it
Is my history
Deep, deep, dark
And unknown
With the alienest fauna
And megafauna
And worse!
Tiny, briny things
Spindly and krill-like
Do I like that I'm like them?
as if that matters
Some day my flailing arms,
That thrash me along, against
Tidal and vorpal forces
Like coral (and the glass we left there)
Will tire of their toil
And I'll slip in, in and amongst
My ancestors, a relative unknown
Never having been spent
As fuel for the light
And we'll wait,
just wait
…
What quiet
What pressure.
What End.
Posted by Hans Andersen | at 1:27 PM | 0 comments
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