Typed Music


I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.


89. Escapism

In their heads they climb the trees of their childhood summers

That perpetual August

Several years all shimmered into one pulsating pool

Of heat-haze

When nothing was as real

As bare skin on bark

Infinitely ascending

Out of the reach

Of the corruption that crept behind

In an orchestra of clocks


Now even the shrubs have been wind-flattered into two dimensions

There are no timbered Jacobs’ ladders here

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