|Tags||Exiled Artist, Hartier|
|Hartier 2 →|
Learned men breathe idylls;
mad men build monuments while their cities burn;
ruined philosophers rail at advertisements for;
we go mad at the sight of her beauty, her beauty eternal;
all the while the dreams are on repeat until the cycle clicks.
The cycle clicks and the static coalesces only a flicker, only a moment.
In the alleyways the kids roll joints laced with it--
the bruisers and the burakumin beat sense out of it--
in the towers of the wisest, most plentiful we see the neon, calling for it--
the dreaming for another news-cycle, another day to dawn.
Here we dreamt it was Atlantis sunk,
victim to its own hubris.
We watched them lose their minds to the raving,
flawless will of the heartless.
The drops form, ghosts invoke themselves
and all the while spent, longing in repose.
|Exiled Artist||Series||Eleanor Blog: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 – Eleanor Sketchbook: 2 | 4 – | Hartier: 1 | 2 | 3|
|Standalone||Anti Beacon Flier | Eleanor Email | EW Death | Last Poem|
|Hartier||Series||Hartier: 1 | 2 | 3 – Postcard: 1|