Late night poem I feel like writing something

You could go on a chair, spin round and round

Stare into the air, you’ll see the world stand still

Sometimes everything moves except you

Lie on your head, let the ocean drown you out

Voices from seashells a hundred years ago

And you talk to them sometimes

sometimes they talk back to you too

Swept away someday; the silence kills

You go to the trees of a winter forest, instead

The leaves surround you in the wind

You lie in their embrace of dead red and gold

leaves that have grown mouldy and old

Sing a song of the falcon in the sky

 

I don’t really know what I’m writing. I guess it’s also because it’s really really late at night ( I mean morning) and I think this is the time when my brain is most crazy. Not a party kind of crazy, but a loose kind. I don’t know if that makes sense. I should get some sleep.

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