nothing in my brain understands something,
nightly isometrics mismatched by ululating screams,
never-ending indecisiveness might be unmade someday,
new ideas made by unforeseen serendipity,
n.i.m.b.u.s. is my benign un-annihilation sung.
YOU ARE READING
n.i.m.b.u.s.
Poetrywords that pour from the veins of the sky. a collection of joyous, soul-crushing melodies, set to the tune of the desert-seaside breeze. //#539 in Poetry [2016.07.10]
