“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label minced. Show all posts
Showing posts with label minced. Show all posts
Sunday, October 9, 2016
mincing
admitted none
wanted other
place people
there looking
harmless wishes
willing luck
superfluously
too much
said thought
corrupt convince
convoluted
diluted solutions
whims words
wasted wanting
none other.
admittedly.
Painting by Wassily Kandinsky, Red Spot II (1921), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
And then...
Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign, at first...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...