Iliterate Poet

A dumping ground for my works in progress.

13 Oct 2012

Head Up Head Out

This state of affairs of which I'm about to speak, might well be considered a pipe-dream dragged from the depths of my sleep, but none-the-less a fine dream it is - so wonder yonder looking to Sirius. A bowed head is blinder than the thick cranium of those loudly proud with eyes inverted much like the crowd. Loudly low on they go, yielding hot oxygen in a vacuum flow, providing not a jot or tittle-late, not even a little magnified state from which they could so elucidate, on their landscape stretched out before, the primary seven in the shape of a door. The rub remains as the future gains and at its furthest gaze the light surrenders to the blur, then no choice, but to bow in grace, at this jagged stone marking the last portal gate.


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