My soul is depreciating. I folded myself into complex origami, gothic arches and bowties and little paper snowflakes, but the creases are starting to tear.
There is nothing aesthetically pleasing about a Christmas Tree. Cathedrals are beautiful. Mosques are beautiful. Forests are beautiful. I think Christmas Trees might be beautiful. Is it beautiful to give life to a dead thing?
Do hopeless pilgrims pound life into miles? Do fat bankers eat living gold? Do passionate martyrs die alive? Or do we modify our Gods after they are gone: hopeless, fat, passionate.
I’m failing to harmonize. Ornamental zits corrupt my facial symmetry, and the rain falls rhythmless. Midnight is passing, the moment illuminated in electronic light and an electronic choir of depreciating angles.
There is nothing aesthetically pleasing about a Christmas Tree. Cathedrals are beautiful. Mosques are beautiful. Forests are beautiful. I think Christmas Trees might be beautiful. Is it beautiful to give life to a dead thing?
Do hopeless pilgrims pound life into miles? Do fat bankers eat living gold? Do passionate martyrs die alive? Or do we modify our Gods after they are gone: hopeless, fat, passionate.
I’m failing to harmonize. Ornamental zits corrupt my facial symmetry, and the rain falls rhythmless. Midnight is passing, the moment illuminated in electronic light and an electronic choir of depreciating angles.
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