The Bohemian

Ceiling fans spin and swirl
hot air through rooms
while the gods lounge
on leather in towers.
Fresh skin feeling
after cold showers.

Existing between extremes
are the dreams I idolise.
Buried deep underground,
lost among the clouds,
writing superficial odes
to the randomness of radio.

The free souls I know
equate to a die’s fifth face.
Irregular dotted pattern.
I cannot tell you who, nor
where cube was thrown
’til with dice, we roll ten.

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