Bamboo Bridges
I own nothing but journals, film, and ink,
passing over narrow bridges,
thinking back to the days when…
the materials were the cereals I yearned for every morn,
when jewelry had fooled thee, confused credit cards as porn,
to remember December,
as it laid in green and gold,
my conversations were of objects,
conversations seemed so cold,
now risen through the poverty of longevity through a media reality,
I bring my status to a zero,
a hero of an empty wallet, call it what you will,
though every night I paint my flight while the others move so still,
I take the molecules of their ridicules,
and the comments of my ways,
feed the fires of Thorough desires,
and simplified my days,
writing fictionist predictions through depictions of the sense,
I tore down those bricks of arithmetic’s cause I always hate that fence,
my theory of one bag, two legs, and a dick for the pen,
has brought me to the closest definition of my Zen,
time is a man made, hourly paid, cycle of the past,
and while the watch wearing people, give 60minutes to a steeple,
they will forever finish last
By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell / LiveFiction.net
