Bacchus and the Muses
My words are
A sweet wine
Which ever
So slowly melts
Like slushies in summer
Into your
Plutonian
Dreams:
I laid
On the warmth
Of the roof
Of the world
Seemingly
Dreaming
Ever so slowly
As if
The world were
A diabetic's
Heart beat,
My candle eyelids
burning
Down the wick
Without
Any midnight
Oil. Berserk
Beating brain
Pulsating like mad
Men
In the White House
Who don't know
What they're
Even doing
Anymore.
Yet the typewriter plays on
And on
And on.
Infinite in its desire
For self destruction.
I'm just left
With paltry works
Of words-
My words.
A sweet wine
Which ever
So slowly melts
Like slushies in summer
Into your
Plutonian
Dreams.
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Jörmundgandr
What's there to know that can't be said through my poetry? I'm a romantic.
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