Yesterday, Van Gogh hadn't even started painting.
Today Fibonacci is already dust, forgotten and unaware.
Tomorrow I am a carved story, written on human tarpaulin.
This golden trio, synonymous with the world both
Bittersweet and running
Grinning even over the bluffs.
There is no right time she says.
Side-winding slaps to the face
And we turn the other cheek.
There is only time left says he.
Embracing this Goliath: count the lines,
Label the curves, and seek out the nooks.
This is our world damn it.
And we are missing the mark.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
.JPG)
No comments:
Post a Comment