The Ballad of the Golden Calf
By mark_yelland-brown
Sat, 11 May 2019
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1 comments
I’m sitting in a well sat arm chair
In front of a box of tricks;
Soul-sucking the life force out of me,
In exchange for this visual fix.
Outside, in real air
Summer’s yawning
Its yellows and gold’s to the sky;
While in eye-glazed devotion
To the screen of my dreams,
I’ve sold my heart for a lie.
Time is elastic and hours pass,
In silence, like statues we wait;
For the next burnt offering reminder
That we’ve left it all too late.
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Outside, in real air Summer’s
Outside, in real air Summer’s yawning Its yellows and gold’s to the sky; – a lovely sensation of contrast of the feel of fresh breeze, compared to the torpor that can capture by too much mind-dulling and addictive 'entertainment'. Concisely put. Rhiannon
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