dry bough
The liquid.
Gold.
And the commonalities
of words.
Flowing honey
green and paper,
bands as called by
faucets planned in clocked
cloaks - train tracks
my departure on
time, yet arrives
L-ater.
Far have farming faeries gone
to bring a speck of dust on the towel;
The liquid.
Gold.
Leaving bodily functions to function by themselves.
And what remains?
A momentary state of weary kangaroos?
A world of small belief?
~Spinn, spinn, meine Welte!!! - subtracting what I know from what I don't.
However?
Sunglasses staring from the walls
remind me who I shouldn't trust.
.
The liquid.
Gold.
The one at fault for every step
I get to blame myself on.
Spinning letters aren't as annoying since
I realized the line between The state and The moment - or so I like to think.
While I walk and talk, The liquid affects
the manner in which I speak,
the manner in which I click,
the manner in which I'm weak.
And as long as watching my own cups
prevents the chaos flooding in,
this is my world - and it's fine.
Where else would a tin man spend his time?
As for The liquid?
Lines blur nonetheless.
I like to think I know how to balance
The moment
and
The state
. - but I've tried time and time again,
and gave up, spinning in my bed.
upbeat rain
serene moat