And if days were liquid, I’d drown seven times, wake up to
die, and there I lye, a matrimony of bubble breath and no sound.
Wetter eyes, that never saw so much blur, and hair that didn’t care
for gravity even more less, no sir. Pinches of little sphere air on
my skin, and prune fingers in the garden of too much, but you like
the inexact amount, which is paramount to your touch. I am
weightless, and slow moving now, a couple minutes gone, lungs
crushed….and still sang you a song. But you just threw fishing
line, instead of roses for my ballad of aqua. Icelandic applauded
reception of my determination, to amuse you, and your little big
intelligent misconception. While you drink, I’m engulfed by waves,
surrounded by melted oxygen “an on, an on, an on, anon, an on, an
on” said he of the anthem, the lake has now drank the last remains
of the phantom.
Thinking ginger thoughts, as I start sinking.
“Totsiens, Peace King”