Thursday, July 12, 2012

Büble of the Futile



Stuck in a Petrie dish
of worthless machines
running on steam
and stale gasoline.
The city sings
of people weened off dreams
like mundane fiends
that cling to the wings
of myths. Angels aren't things
but imaginary flings
that clean the conscience
of grieving, thieving
and reaping beliefs.

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