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Spaghetti knots


Give me prose,

short, nasty, crumbling,

while I wish for the

rocketry of poetry.


The third law states

That for every apple

There is a tree

And a man who

Sits underneath it with

A belly full of

Fruit that grows into

Seeds of thought that

Leave him wondering what

Body is pulling him.


A life boat

Is dead weight

When the wind

Does not blow.

About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters. Follow my wordpress or my IG (@_kenkan)


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