Timelines trip the toes
of the Fortuitous, and eventually,
a trickle that treaded softly amongst the
soft-spoken become
torrents that flood all
connective-tissue, exacerbating the
gash of a cruel-chain-of-events.
Where
do all
the
lost people
(things)
go?
Never-Never Land, hand in hand with God-
waiting for a fold in time to
reconnect the disjointed delinquents.
Eyelashes sticktogether
bonded by the salt and sweat, and
Sweet Dreams.
Eyes impregnated with
flash forwards of what
can be
should a stream of consciousness
prevail over preliminary percussive poisons.
A veiled stillness imitates
withdrawl
when, behind the curtain the
effervescent shit-show of
renegade relics of personailty
sing songs.
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