Old things

We are old things with dusty
Ideas dressed as old wounds.
We are essential underclass.

We did  not erupt to go away.
Our old bones crunch below
In cellular jail of slave island.

We are of odd things in even.
We live in a musty staircase.
Our dust is spirit of old idea.

Odd things are of old bodies.
They are odd shapes in size.
Their dust dances a skylight.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s