Paper, paper, scissors

On the deserted island that is sheltering him,

 

Getting wider apart and further away in vapours,
He tries covering footprints of missteps with sheets,
Lets some of them fade and wash in the waves

But they circle his brain and stain abaft shores.

 

Where they pop up and in, surfacing on his lobes;
Passing thru aisles like thru Bermudas triangle.

 

A flame in the darkness surrounding he lit;
Such a poetic line written in sands,
On the deserted island that is sheltering him;
Raising up higher to fall lower in grounds.

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fuche_bu's picture

no rock?  it gives scissors

no rock?  it gives scissors an unfair advantage.

penky's picture

They

it's all good, they get rusty in time


Penky