Pen-parading fingers little flames melt the ice of must…

A galleon’s belly thine, heavy with counterfeit  bullion, and the legalized pirates anon come flying the skull and bones fleecing innocence. Birth is suicide, the seven unruly seas…

Cheap are the wishes of shooting starlight, fond airs of a fading aerolith. Summer has nothing as perfect as the snowflake, the very flowers are vibrant mockeries thereof nonetheless, and thus perish as prettily… 

Undying legends declare to once be alive is to be immortalized. Maybe there is no atom, or sun, nor empire forgotten, and the unfailing cosmic memory records all. And this kid’s skinned knees teach a kid t’other side of the universe…

A stranger eagerly standing upon every cross roads you come across. You see, your eyes, your touch, your being is the meaning of sword, gun, battle, the lawless justification as the dust to dust settles…

Blessedly curse the sanctioned witchcraft of soulless women, yea, the black magic of blood-soaked men! All the loving loveless they light stars for candles, revolve Utopian worlds for peace of mind. Lenticular their laughter, focusing the furious beam on the omnipresent mirror, and the crying, scratching cockerel sun is not without interpreter…

© Thomas James Foster 2015


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