ODE TO PHIL.
If nonsense were to speak surely truth would cease.
Do you not speak to me?
Flying skies hang brash underneath
sinking worms, terrified of what we'll see.
The wool of infinity,
tenses up any muscle we dare let loose,
and soon nothing becomes of us but our bones
and roots,
digging
endlessly digging through our past life
as if we were nothing much,
and such serenity had never been seen,
until the demise of our existential reality.
If nonsense were to speak surely truth would cease.
Do you not speak to me?
Flying skies hang brash underneath
sinking worms, terrified of what we'll see.
The wool of infinity,
tenses up any muscle we dare let loose,
and soon nothing becomes of us but our bones
and roots,
digging
endlessly digging through our past life
as if we were nothing much,
and such serenity had never been seen,
until the demise of our existential reality.