Neigh

Standard

Lead minutes and cotton mouth
the tongue moves slowly
In recognition of words
Tasting the language.
Words taste new and gelatinous
Whilst distant sounds bang
An odd music.
Somewhere on the way there is
Logic held captive
In a sordid room,without windows or doors.
Thoughts are hammering them as we speak.
There is a distant roam
A neigh of wordless despair
Behind a couple of galaxies.
Just set it free.

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