Moss

“There is something hostile trembling in my Certitude.”
The eyes serve as lenses,
lenses that greedily rake in the world.
The brain is a house of storm fronts,
grey as dusk and pulsating alternating currents;
A house full of somnambulant gods,
whom we converse with in sleep,
wandering through
groves of ambrosia
and grapes fermented on the vine.
I can sense the hostility in knowing,
can feel the voice of certainty clicking those
lenses
open and shut.
A voice like waiting moss
grows and trembles.

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Daily writings and poems

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