It’s Not

They travel through telephone wires
In discoloured energy sparks
Of whites lined with cobalt
Inside shadowy helixes
Of indigo blues
Entering emptied homes
Of tapered glass walls.

Deceptions in fabrications
Of deciphered loves
Without bodies;
Just a soul.

Erroneous sounds escaping
The thinnest lines of
Must be realities that
Could make the world fall apart.

Like the last time they blew it up.

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Airy

Taunting nebulaic dreams
Nomadically ricochet
Nosily inside seams.
Gallows in projections
Construct billows
Gently wisping
Wallows of tortured
Love rowed towards
The maintenance of hope.