Blog music poetry WRITING

π–‹π–”π–Œ

π–‹π–”π–Œ

every saturday the rain chooses the brain for the next days work that grandmother called rest

one is a hailstorm filled with second-hand smoke
one runs on the
dregs on the bottom of a beer bottle
one tortures a stoics
philosophy with limerick and dance
the last is
victim, reluctant to overcome the melody of a revolver

every sunday the choice is made apparent by what can’t be found through the haze

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