LukeMorrison

Looking at clouds

In the vise for the nice;

Weather is bland.

Cooled coarse stone

pressed to my hand.

 

Freedom is up -

Sky strives straight, 

away from the ground

of love and hate.

 

Minimal magic

imbued in the clouds.

Tiny perfection

behind silk shrouds.

 

Dark is the deep.

How far can one fall?

Echoing through caverns;

A white dove's call.

 

Hungry hence

for hedonistic desire -

not sated nor quenched

by becoming higher.

 

Which is superior

I can't decide;

To live in desiccation,

or blissful suicide?



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