Junkie Poetry

Small flame heats the spoon
which holds the key to an ongoing romance.

. . . . It seems as if yesterday has been gone for decades
only, you never noticed this
. . . . because you got lost in your own machine

Your eyes shut down to the half-mass nod
your body hovers, weightless,
drifting in the loft of a gentle seclusion
and it’s, “Us against them,”
because no one understands but us.
Am I right?

Soft light moves through your distant dreams
that sort of glisten beneath shafts of blurry light.
And you think to yourself, “I just want to see clearly.”

But you can’t . . . .
You’re too focused on the beautiful collisions
and the soft eruptions that burst in your mind.

You lose yourself to the gentle chaos
and you give in to the contamination
that takes you through the momentary paradise
until once again . . . the small flame heats the spoon
which holds the key to your ongoing romance.

. . . . It seems you have been gone for decades
only, you never noticed this

 . . . . because you got lost in your own machine

Remember?

 

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