As if they didn’t trail enough,
I’m still dogging feathers.
A feather that leaves behind feathers,
The origin is about as clear as my plans.
Fire on the wind, embers floating,
A city that’s empty, an eerie cemetery,
Gorgon faces frozen in the mirrors,
Hands severed still writing, how efficient.
Vintage toys, back in style,
Calamity seems so ridiculous.
June lingers in the sunglasses,
Worn indoors despite the shade.
I can’t wait to be home, real home,
I’m not quite sure where the turtle moved now,
But I can spot it from afar an island on the sea.
What a great place to build a house.
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