Mole Holes


Old and cold gold enfolding molds roll scrolling upon my mind,
Tempting in shiny timed and combined lines,
Left undefined and binding me,
Blinding me, always unrefined and inclined to be finding me,
Wanting me, taunting me, leaving me dreaming and dauntingly,
Haunting me,
Berating my degraded fates flauntingly, and my hate as of late,
Is a great weight upon belatedly stated fates I contemplate on,
To relate,
As it disintegrates the placid places it berates,
As so slowly it grinds my mind to a blind bind,
And I find it lined with lines,
Of undefined twines, entwined to wind me with repine vines,
That unkindly insert their shining spines so gracefully,
Always killing me tastefully,
I shout but the doubt that spouts out subliminally clouds,
The loud sounds that come out,
I feel lost cold and unknown, facing bold folding patterns alone,
To push through the new lining you ground down around town,
Through your two new used blue and black shoes,
To truly break through to your soul, to be me, you see we see,
That you are me, and we seem to have found our control.

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