March 26, 2017

I look up into February's mouth
This is not an answer
The war at the foundations
Says not to touch me
Every hour the weight of my tongue
Shifts sluggishly over to another language
Printing presses and visions
Crawling through the transmuted divine
I float like an island and crash at the stars
Dependent on such battlefields
Compromises with the pale fragments
That turn proverbs into scars

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