Fantasy and reality Dance on a razors edge of sanity Bobbing back-and-forth too, and fro as they do their tango And there’s a rose between my teeth
By Franklyn Wyldeabout a year ago in Poets
The scum tries to bridge the gap between the banks beaten back by a meandering stream. There is a cross country race in the distance.
You’re cold like the long Russian winter Like the masters before you You're practiced and malicious Airbrushed from existence
It feels like an overshare to say I work at a hydroponic weed farm and im often sad But I still said it to Ed Schrader last night.
“I don't get it, he's a mystery; it's like he is artificial.” “Who are you talking about, Rae? Twelve has been sitting for a minute.”
By Franklyn Wyldeabout a year ago in Fiction
