H

Hordes of hirsute suns consume ancient stones.
Deer speak to a dusty river. They hate
everything they can repeat, but their mouths
are brimming with incoherent lies. Stars are not
heavy above, not at all in charge of this planet
where the notion of horizon is but a silly joke.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s