"The Skin of a Cloud"
My phone has a breath for its song.
Calls bring me from the new wind.
There’s no bell, but the chip pops.
Skins can cover buttons with rings.
Yester-night, middle night blackness.
A pinch of thought can pour the rest.
Houses are machines since love provides.
Leave a scratch on an app, and doors find you.
Just show me the robot who believes my words.
Microwaves grill enough time to make me happy.
I know there’s a voice in my mail.
Faces are books if beauty sees them.
Gods are open before the gardens remain.
Cocktails can be made out of a can.
That’s why I worry, there’s enough pressure to play with gross food.
Candles have their own piece of sunshine.
I’m waiting for a call, waiting for a song.
If music wakes me, it’s because I’m pleased.
I own a feline cat with unknown colors.
What’s this to me, a dream of subtle prosperity?
Shadows wake beyond the floor.
There’s sleep in the air, hanging by a thread.
Of course, I can always sow that thread.
There’s nothing to do except time.
I can’t dial the screen away.
In videogames, we’re plumbers for gold.
Ah, that’s the gravy of despair!
Hats are walking, although soldiers fight.
I’m in a random house of memories.
If imagination drowns, I’ll fight reality.
*This is a poem of good quotes to complement my phone philosophy.
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