Nothing is the tall root of grass, churning engines crush the mash, to taste a funeral wrapped in plastic. We don’t see the moon, as solicited voices scroll across the screen. To inhabit a version of you, ceaselessly decomposing, branding your voice for a violent winter. Her name was rose, but no one cared, as dead wings spoil in their nest. Are you going to stay, the living heart is thrashing. As I am you faced with the fading colors of our world.
A montage of words from Pablo Neruda and my Brain, with a little help from Buckethead.
Image by: Factory Fifteen