Little Miss Homo Sapien's Cave


Ripe nightfall,
its succulent breeze
and candied iciness
brushing his lips.

The taste of being this
unfettered, bitter halcyon days
 best buried as he sinks his
teeth into this lascivious weather.

‘A brainstorm is brewing,
swirling Dead Leaves off the ground;
always the Lightning illuminates
 way before the Thunder sounds.’

Simon Pure lullabies him–
so wide he opens his eyes, and tho’
the flood will vaporize he is
 a globule of crystallized water,


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