under music, bending waves,
falling backwards, gently,
thin, wet leaves, and prickles
drinking liquor-thin starlight
and citrus divine
underneath balm, and dark green eyes,
and air makes this thick, and moody,
and minding, and trickling,
and twisting; and flying between
Drunken Steps and maroon camouflage,

and there's not a dry eye
in the place, i swear,
when you set down and finally
grieve for this, live through this,
trying-times-conquer this,
and time life and manage these
ages gone by.

can you mourn for it, really?
all that lost sunshine, and twilight arcadia,
and rocks breaking rocks in gaping excitement,
and the last breath of corelight
is filed away slowly, and gives off steam
through a small little hole;
and i can't end this, not really,
without setting myself down
in defeated entropy
sprawling out on the ground
and melting, benignly


-bronnie


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