LIKE A MUSIC WHAT USED TO BE
Narrow times, and distant angles, like Grenoble,
and Iceland together. Sounds in a strange tongue,
yet gentle and real. Are we entering this world?
Or leaving another? Each time I seek finding
out, I am lost once again. The sign on the fence
reads, 'Keep Out,' as a Private Property for sure.
I cannot see why. To let more wreckage bloom,
to let more wreckage bloom.
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