Saturday, January 10, 2015

This Old House

 This Old house we sit, Like a crypt of memories my bleeding heart seeping through ashes left behind by the dust of consciousness. My mind folds in complex formations ghosts and the struggles of residue left behind, reflected in the eyes bound by frames beneath the glass frozen in time.
 residue of a thousand ticks talking amongst themselves in shadows reveries seep into collective unconscious mysteries unveil tall tales of the plan.