a giant gold fish bowl.
blue hues; the cold infused...
browns surround-a monochrome compass.
lackluster green holds the trees to a plastic only seen on christmas.
the white's been tread by blinded men, no hose could wash away their sins.
lets make it burn.
taste the char upon my lips?
its the ash, in every breath.
a hand trembles with power; not to create or destroy,
but to change.
from paper to poems, then those lines to soot.
all is permanent in existence, although not in state.
if something I write originated in my mind(did it?), does the thought also follow the same rules as what has been written? does it take up space? is it real? can it be measured? can it be lost? how about ruined? one thing's for sure, it can change mediums. a thought can find itself on paper only to rot away into some other form; lost and irretrievable. just like my mind. ha. but seriously, not really.
I'm in a rambling mood, like always...
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