Hole
Whispering void
Yearns to be filled
So I shovel
Until I am ill
Sick of the shape
Always the same
No matter
What I throw in
The preciously held
The repulsive banal
Equal
When passing the lip
Mute in the hole
No sound or no weight:
If there's a bottom
Then I cannot tell
Yearns to be filled
So I shovel
Until I am ill
Sick of the shape
Always the same
No matter
What I throw in
The preciously held
The repulsive banal
Equal
When passing the lip
Mute in the hole
No sound or no weight:
If there's a bottom
Then I cannot tell
posted by Ultra Toast Mosha God at 7:22 AM
2 Comments:
http://bigbroiswatchingareyou.blogspot.com/
good post
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