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.
👍🏻
LikeLiked by 1 person