Nov
26
this is a command prompt; touch your two weeks notice and know this, that to grow this is the only way to sow this seed, to grow this need is the only way to throw this need - and oh, this deed, a burning one spurned or earned,
the sea churns and the earth turns and curtains never close, the mind never knows but you’ll find still it shows: that global truths are local truths, always photobooths, snapshots of half-thoughts burnt into memories that glimmer decisively
a crisis is christ’s bite, righteous, every era a terror, every mirror an error, a twisted gyre of lyric mire (if poetry were ever anything but death)
breath comes in steps, and twists come in reps, and every fork is one side of a mobius coinÂ
