09 April 2016

Poem-A-Day #40 : Pejorism


The world spins - which is obvious

In the blackness of space it tilts itself like Don Quixote

Caring little for what spreads across its surface

That tilt - everything flows off the face into the ocean of orbit

The world shakes itself dry

The world looks into the sun until it dehydrates

Silence fans out from the center

History chains the thing to its horse - drags it from the view

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