Ars Poetica
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No
where
road trip
with you, Mind.
You’ve been one to blame
for the crinkled maple leaves
lining the inside
Isn’t she lovely?
Stars, beautiful and glittering,
it isn’t quite fair.
He breathes in the cold black night air.
Rain that falls like
A thousand glass beads
On the ocean’s surface
From high clouds of
Diction and consonance.
Lush pastorals ambling through
A yellow forest on worn roads,
My Ars Poetica: A Different Kind of Animal
Nothing turns a stomach like the rancid aura that cradles the furry carcass of a life that once was.
We are all made from dust and to dust we shall return,
the only secret is landing on the part of the desk
that doesn't get cleaned often.