Some more we's, as well as some more random images and messages. Blah, enjoy!
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Quiet Veneers


Can you show me how
to flirt with dead presidents, how
to get rich (quick!) off ideas
I don't believe in, how
to be calm as an stillborn rose?

It's been five days and
I am useless as a broken vase, and
God has been murdered
by the offending sun - and
we haven't learned from it at all.

I remember the
two shades of blue, the
breathless moments of clarity, the
ideas Plato searched for
night after ruthless night.

This dream is old. It
has been old ever since it
arrived, packaged in its
own rust and stardust,
just waiting for artistic renderings.

Halfway there, we seem to
be running out of things to
say to each other, things to
run our fingers through, exclaiming
soft, hushed obscenities.

Can you feel the ultraviolet coming from
each and every pore, from
places you never knew existed?
We derive the strangest things from
maniacal wonderlands.

You tell me all sorts of
things that frighten me, of
which some seem to be made of
gossamer rainbows and others
of dying words in candlelight.

We are familiar to each other -
snapped open like surprised eyes.
We have died trying, but
we have never tried dying -
and that makes all the difference.



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We all wear our thoughts where no one but the most observant of us all can see them.