playing with logic in a symbolic forecast

mundane mayhem

i’ve often wondered
how dry fingers
turn the page

or how
on certain mornings
patron saints
refuse to grant
breakfast blessings

will the crickets ever surrender?

mad and lazy
a white cat
claws at glass redemption
and a shallow sword
stabs at the sky

reaching out with
with nervous intensity
we place passion
beside pieces
of blue emotion

the game, it seems
is meant to be lost

the world is preparing to burn
and i’m just sitting here
for the right moment
to roll the dice



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