My brain is a conman.
And I the hit.
An illusionist of words.
Can't keep up.
Running marathons in sand and mud.
Too late?
Too Soon?
Somewhere in the middle,
Close enough.
No constant flow, more bumps than most.
A word in passing slips through the cracks.
Never to be seen, or heard, or felt.
Lost forever.
--
Stone and steel.
Still and still still.
New paint occasionally,
no food or drugs.
Watching, watching, watching.
Still and still still.
Maybe one day they will take me down.
It could be nice.
Change of scenery.
A nice cozy box.
Or the grand museum.
But for now I am happy.
Content with this life.
For here I am.
And here I shall stay.
And here the birds do not shit.
Life is good.
--
poems/randoms by Marten
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