You know this life is going to live
Your letter is sent,
you feel it dwelling in your veins,
Storms are made of rain and wind,
it is all in your mind.
The bottle is open,
drink your mouth into the sea
malicious mermaids, bathing on stones,
echo your laughter.
Echo your laughter.
The comet no longer flares red,
as ephemeral glows, come
then go,
Perhaps, true colors,
only live to never show.
Are you not in need of some air?
Need you not any time to navigate,
Let the captain take command,
take the north route, through the valleys,
where the wise oaks grow.
Swim in the essence of time,
let it captivate you whole,
borrow, take back, open, tear you,
and spit you back into your hole.
You thought it was over,
when you had reached the final start,
you shot the intellectuals on monday,
and now your are waiting for friday,
rendez-vous at nine o’clock.
Blasphemous writings fill the metro walls,
worry not,
this is the last stop on the on the Eighty-four.
By Eduardo Parkinson
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