A loop in front of a tetrahedron,
the weak workings of infinite law.
To seek another land there are no explications but morose cycles of faucet
and transluscent transluscent sepia
trousers of silent molested metal.
What is this signal but a memory struck of its acrobats?
A snow of guitars when you rise rescued like a landscape.
With its putrid mix I stayed made and transparent
in the middle of the chimney.
Only motionless and to a
cousin they take on time, thousand years
a line in front of a quadrangle,
the dead workings of celestial law.
Indicates the stars in the sky's mixing nose.
What we say dawns to
hear some other woman
what a identity may teach.
The railroad track mixing from my curves.
Thanks for Reading
All Images from Pixabay
Poem Written by me
