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Submitted on
February 7
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cure the vortex
of the stars that
blow away the atmosphere
we've become accustomed
to breathing,

trapped by quasars
and atoms cornered
by indecision
and quantum
break

you have found
the phasing point,
and fallen through the
sun before these fields
could follow us through.


and shatter;
we are the royalty
of Castile, painted red
and black for screaming
in this colored inquisition
how the pot is overflowing
with our sins,

and how your faded jeans
have sundered all the
hellcat-founded ancillaries,

proving that stellar resonance
has imprinted on our vinyl souls,
and this is us, impersonated
by the permanence of every heart attack,
spelled out by the fracture
of rolling dice
and molded plasticine.
just like mirrors
dusted with the very hint
of colored snow,
we can ask the pulsars
for forgiveness
while they bleat along
in seven-hundred year
morse code 

"can you hear me now,
sensors?
are we
the apocalypse?" 
:iconthegreendragoon:
TheGreenDragoon Featured By Owner Feb 18, 2014
I greatly enjoyed this, and hope to see more work from you in the future!
Reply
:iconcreativelycliche:
creativelycliche Featured By Owner Feb 19, 2014  Professional Writer
Thank you!
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