The Cabbage Patch II




photo and words by: Telegraphy


There she is, strutting her stuff in muddy boots.

A blond beauty hiding past bad-romances innocently behind her back as she signals come-on's.

The smell of the morning due gives away to concentrated caffeine that I hallucinate on, like dreaming wide awake. So much so the supervisors criticisms translates into compliments.

Don't step on the fresh spring flowers, for your immortal soul will be transposed to your grandfathers time.

Forsaken is you, a girl used you as a yardstick to measure her beauty. Forsaken is me, all girls use me as a yardstick.

Coming out of the lake, the sun never touches the ski. With it's cold heat, we all bear the brunt of it's spots.

Standing here legless in the mainstream of all streams, a rosebush grows out from my foot only to bloom virgins that I cannot touch.

We all draw our lives conclusions in the spring mud, just in time for summer to abuse it, and then finally winter to accuse it.

Skipping these hourly stones of this sun dial, we rise our hand in victory to a leader of entomology.

Forsaken is you, a girl used you as a yardstick to measure her beauty. Forsaken is me, all girls use me as a yardstick.

Signs popping out of know-where, confused are all of us in this chest game planet.

I walked onto a hidden ritual structure in plain sight. My extremities morphs into winding vines, wrapping around my innocent consciousness, squeezing all light from it.

It's just a forsaken soul. Nothing to see here, carry on.

The all-day fog sucking each breath away, houses boutique manikins, wheedling nefarious knowledge that they may convey.

Forsaken is you, a girl used you as a yardstick to measure her beauty. Forsaken is me, all girls use me as a yardstick.

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