whatiwas

this is ichor, flowing over rounded shapes and leaving telltale trails in lines on the remains of dead things, when i say dead things i mean dead heights whose apexes scraped the sooty bellies of heavens and connected the impossible to the thought, when i say the thought i mean the told tales of idle idols (there should be an idyll there, if you remember). i can't decide if it's the pulse of divinity or an open wound; i dream so much of the latter, put your faith in my love of at least one of them and i promise i will never let you down, i do not want what i have got, it's a refrain, it's a sample and i know it, but i'm too distracted looking at the untraceable tracks and deciding, and in the meantime i am iambs, i said, laugh now and you're a believer too.