In a shade of dark
must the near conjunction of our souls
make their exit.
No longer soil,
dear amice.
Let's celebrate grief with
cathedral harmony while
magnetotails blow hot red vapors
inside
the cranium.
The minister stretching
out his bony hand,
resurrecting you
from nil.
The coronial hole
awaits,
propelled by
electro jets far beneath
the aurora.
The curtain is
drawn for
the yester.
PO Johnson
2 comments:
I read this on your blog yesterday. Thanks for cross-posting this one here as well.
Space terms, and then lines like
"The curtain is
drawn for
the yester"
which feels like poetry of the 1600s.
What an interesting brew! Looking forward reading more.
Hello there, I really enjoyed this piece :)
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