Letters

James Long
Oct 24
1 min read

Again again again again

Agon eye loose the plot

Indus tree, us unmade

What deserts

In habit?

My soul?

Pulled telosward to the wait

Of gun in hand

Of exhaustion lungs

Did I sentence my self to a period

Oragamei cant knot, and no longer fathom

I dream I will be as the wind once

Hands lie

Or a star upon the edge of dusk

Word for none and less than even

A life takes itself

to, sincerely,

Period

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