These mountains aren't in my hands
behind the shadows or the creases of my skin
hours are tracers
cars driving down the interstate at infinite speeds
the colors remind me of frozen popsicles,
burning cities,
candle light
at some point there were giants
dipping their toes in the oceans
derivative's haunt me
and count the pages of numbers
and scrapers upon stacks of numbers
crunching monks, and majors and cheifs
this idea of a circle, surrounded on both sides by an equal reflection
like the swollen mother moon
with waves gently painting her kissing
her Self |
Submission Name: Sun on the Horizon
