Absurd Sundays.

This is not a post. This is just a feeling. A feeling falling out of a writers pocket.
The pockets though empty, feel heavy with uncalculated logic.
This is not a thought process its just a puff of smoke.
This is not a morning. It is just an existential joke.

I would rather be on a bus to somewhere cold.

Take my half inspired lungs
Paste them over the phone.

Watch the rain pour.

Wish for a life
Not spent at home.

I am a flame,
A white flower
A shore.

Posted from WordPress for Android

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