The doomed has this room of echoed voices,
Choking on the distance that words cannot be spoken of.
Waiting for history to take its palms
and collapse them to the grounded plans.
These people take the backseat on this back slapped mindedness;
A hearse are for the fateful,
verses are read for the grateful.
And I am still,
Closer to hearing lungs wheezing,
The struggle in the wait has whispers smirking into ears,
senses invited into dips of emotions.
Death certificates are issued for a warrant to search this mystery soul.
Take it easy,
Doctors will give you something for that,
Something to sink your fangs into.
I have hot gossip on speed dial.
I have a bad case of the world and it seems to be an attraction to you,
would you take a ride?
take a thrill?
– just mind your head,
It will only take you around the same old places and back again,
And your dizzy truth prevails when the size of your lies spills from out of your eyes.
© Thelma Von Salem @ https://thelmavonsalem.com
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