cut short.
there are walls here
made of hate,
not brick.
here mannequin hands
reach from the skies(hells)
to push and prod.
(there are no spines
left intact
but many dripping with glue)
you wanna dream?
come'n join us
we'll tell you of dreams.
flights-of-fancies, hallucinations,
we know 'em all,
they're still
tucked neatly in unopened packages,
threaded with the gossamer
of imagination.














Comments