• _oracular 65w

    I sit on a scarred bench in the old
    garden besides the lost city,
    under the technicolored skies.
    The lights here burn a little more
    with the setting sun,
    I can see the gases from the dumps
    rising above like green shadows
    of the fading trees.
    The grass underneath my cold
    feet smells of them.
    Their laughter at death.
    Their laughter after their death.

    I sit there and watch the drapes
    fall till the lights are out.
    I sit there since a sun completes
    it's circle and crumbles back
    into it's nucleus.
    I finger the one dying and suck it's
    life to blow into a new one.

    I don't move an inch from there.
    I won't move too.
    The smell of this plastic dump
    doesn't suffocate me.
    Maybe,it does.
    Yeah,it does.
    Well,quite less than the fleshy
    one infront of me.

    ©oracular_

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    The smell of this plastic dump
    doesn't suffocate me.
    Maybe,it does.

    Well,quite less than the fleshy
    one infront of me.