Crumbles
I walk away on Tinder
Smelling thousands of megabytes
That could give me a blister or two
Of some blessed LSD dreams.
I sleep and these are not my dreams
But the ones of a free mind
That kept you for years
With a secret of suspense.
Every marriage is a dirty bag
Of a sleepy woman or man
That dreams to get free
and sit in a chair chill.
A prisoner with no Windows
Be it '95 or 2000
It is still the grief calling
Of a very disturbed individual.
And everything is old and filthy,
Only a version of myself,
A detour around a city
That once crumbled.
An attractive poem, between the apocalyptic and the nostalgic, that confronts us with a future imagined from the present. Greetings, @maylenasland.
Thank You for your thoughtful words. Greetings there, too.
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