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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2011-09-27 | |
Mercury hit the library
poetry books dropped in tears of melancholy in spite of eating angels for breakfast. Ashes spilled from red wine and meatloaves inspecting us with skepticism. The woman with blonde hair was a tiny girl years passed and snow hit her upper lip. Over the green hills, the Christmas trees turn into young horses, running wildly. Mercury will hit again this time our conscience will perceive it in the past.
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