something written and waiting to quit

what if we
spent
summer days
scratching the fruit
of infinite illusions
drunk on
breathless inspiration
discarding
stories of
secrecy and anxiety
evolving from a
specious rabble
and fixing to wander
virtual roads
in divine disagreement
with eyes closed
and hearts held
in disbelief

nights mixed without color
conditioned and floating
on currents of
curious futility
strange moments
are drowned in a
primal progression

what if these
seasons were so random
they bled between
performance and
delicious madness
and
what if this
voodoo scenery
reset the will of the gods
and granted us
freedom
from this
wounded
and reckless prison

438-something-written-and-waiting-to-quit

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