imitations of us will come back
swapping around
slamming our image against all walls
and all windows
disturbing young mothers during the day
while their day dreaming
while we resist the afternoon waiting for the air to clear in the midst of our imaginary catastrophe
The recycle of our irony
will shine from within the grounds pointing to the skies with the islands in shape of nipples breaking hard and brave
every wave and every pear our isolated mind created during the days of shine and pretty
We will be cross
and terrified with a blank smile
minor as the last ray of sun in a lonely and decadent field where young man used to die
the navigation of our faith
will be lost through out their bodies
as a futile reminder of our minimal ancestral breed.
by The Shortfellow
New York City
07/14/15
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