markbousfield

Newness never sleeps serene,
it only grows older
collecting the dust of tomorrow's dreams,
In the world of the dillatente,
of screaming into dewdrops and the floating
dandelions on the wind,
Wreathing the noose in the dark until such decorum of death is my want.

In this sweet piggy paradox
I release the thoughts I sentenced one day to be free,
I crush their belief,
especially in love,
you're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong,
as you grew, your bones became stick men,
they came from the leaky bits in your brain,
self hate, mud cakes, white rabbits run late,
I will love you, from your false hair and eyes and skin and teeth.