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Literature Text
Angels tonguing corpses
Taking Jungian shapes as they roll in their graves
Running through rivers of Freud at the end of each day
In scratches he pierces the weaves of his dreaming
Pulling scars from his shadows’ corners
Illuminating sheaths of consciousness through the mists of his disposition
Empty canvases shatter to leaves in the fall
Breezes corrupt through to ice in a storm
He becomes it all and nothing more when he treks through to dawn
And so many more will come to him when he dives in again
A forever sum of suns guides his will through his pen.
Taking Jungian shapes as they roll in their graves
Running through rivers of Freud at the end of each day
In scratches he pierces the weaves of his dreaming
Pulling scars from his shadows’ corners
Illuminating sheaths of consciousness through the mists of his disposition
Empty canvases shatter to leaves in the fall
Breezes corrupt through to ice in a storm
He becomes it all and nothing more when he treks through to dawn
And so many more will come to him when he dives in again
A forever sum of suns guides his will through his pen.
100 word piece that turned out as a poem.
© 2009 - 2024 SlippingHalo
Comments3
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sounds like a self portrait if you ask me
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