.

[byronius]

we ded not die
just flew high
on a guitar made right
pentastar
modern hearts
summer cotton candy
every breeze an island
each touch tells
when the car sways in the tunnel
other lives
waiting quiet
until we see them
very soon
they’ll tell us where
the wheel turns to
cello sings
carbon rings
the print pressed in the sand
olivane
twelve of them
settle down
rocks fly
we can hold one
let it spin us out
to past