Delirious
tastes of flowers
in the dust-blooms off my boots.
in the devil-bread succulence of stones.
the stipples of Shangri-la cranes.
a mile means nothing,
swallowed by the crumbles of a riverbed.
fish ribs line layers of stones,
so it has always been:
the petrified swim in waterless water.
no cacti only sand.
dunes that won’t hold an epitaph.
such sad primal parents, the stars,
pray in the false mud of heaven.
blurry in swim, appears a mermaid,
she who i won’t let scream,
she who shall remain thus,
happy through many a touchless time.
this desiccated diorama,
it drifts drifts drifts
through every kind of husk the wary seek to avoid.
but it shall end:
such is the fate of archers
who shoot too-fast food,
and ride too-fast chariots,
burning the wheels to survive.
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