I found a soul on a park bench. It fits so it’s mine. I’m replacing the alien smell with my own. It hurts to reinvent.
Tourists fall in love in Atlantis. They build each other up with hypodermic needles, duct tape, screws, claim to be sunken cities ready for resurrection through coloring books, therapy circles, hypoallergenic diets.
But really, it’s like putting up condos in the Gobi.
And so I tried to leave this soul on a picnic table. But they chased me shrieking,"You forgot something!"
"Me?"
It’s yours, isn’t it?
Bleeding at the seams. It hurts to reinvent.
Tourists fall in love in Atlantis. They build each other up with hypodermic needles, duct tape, screws, claim to be sunken cities ready for resurrection through coloring books, therapy circles, hypoallergenic diets.
But really, it’s like putting up condos in the Gobi.
And so I tried to leave this soul on a picnic table. But they chased me shrieking,"You forgot something!"
"Me?"
It’s yours, isn’t it?
Bleeding at the seams. It hurts to reinvent.
