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Ghost

January 28, 2013

flickr-3957566392-original

Beautiful, beautiful, terrible machine.
I hear your whisper like a scream.
See the gears within you turn.
All your petty motivations.
Your little litany of longing.
Smell the oil within you burn.
See you kicking in a dream.
All your childish machinations.
And I can hear the drums of Gods.
Beating in the air.
A tattoo to total supplication.
That you should be watched.
And under eye.
Now all the pretty Gods have gone.
And left an empty sky.
All the wires about you hung.
I can see them, every one.
Around the finger.
Beneath the thumb.
The blossom eats the butterfly.
Let what remains.
Your little litany of fear.
Be the glorious wants and needs.
Somewhere behind your voice.
In a world that’s lost its fucking mind.
Insanity’s become the sanest choice.

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From → Poetry

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