Poetry generator

Tell Him That I Am Giving Up Circumscribing In Phenomena

The mirror knows this,
that life in it's silken boxes is as endless as the goblet.
It's a perching bed of pigeon holes.

There are no traps but communist cycles of miracle and sepia
railroad tracks of manly silent metal. Dead astronauts and gods.
For me they are alphabetic.
When you continue mixed like a wheatfield.