Saturday, February 27, 2010

its constant breathing drum

crystal clear like a mountain morning bell this sharp existence

the fog of sleep, the mists of mind, the lingering vapor of some melancholy memory have dissipated in a single moment of its meditation

no words can fly within this atmosphere and any that attempt to do so plummet to some flat misunderstanding

amphetamine the wind, hallucongenic shines its light, the smell of ozone is the touch of thunder on its constant breathing drum

alive i am alove

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