we move to create such sorrowful sunshine
streaking canyonlines above another
seeming consequence. caught in
chrometangle threads of everylittlething,
you're thinking to yourself
'if only love had no need to draw flight
and concieve such blackplastic
dissapointment, we would see, with each
frozen fingertip, the beauty that spins us
so tightly like the air moving over the
pavement on this greyfleece day.'
crisp voices dulling never, intertwining
juxtaposed heartthrobs, all you can see
is blue.