the day trying in your hands, or ode to the baker who will start a cafe in the near future

and I’m singing-up till the mountains-with a basket of eggs in my hands-and the teardrops on their faces-are slipping, into themselves-now I’m dancing-through the day-and the nighttime with fireflies, as my guides-if i take, too long-then i’ll call, might call-like obsessions I’m still hollow-drink the grape juice from the vine-the bees buzzing, too much action-drink some wine, to pass the time-get collective to the same beat-with their masks on, they start to run-and if you catch them, then they’ll let go-still I settle on the plains with my guns kept inside-riding moose up the river and the slivers of my tongue-can you hear? your soul pouring what’s not been shed-so just stop to feel the change-you can’t walk! in a vacuum-with those weights, holding you down-so start running through the water-did you forget, how to swim?-see it pass, through the rearview-if you’re looking, it’s behind you-you’re only what you see, you’re only what you see…-you’re only what you see, sometimes! sometimes! it’s what you, do battle with, that sets you apart from the night


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I'm fascinated with people, their stories, where they're coming from and where they're headed. Met many, and now it's time to write my own. follow the footprint.

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