My cluttered mind cannot define, The images I see,
For caught in mazes far too hard, Each thought longs to be free.
An angel passes all the rest, and shouts down from the sky,
a music note falls from his lips, a drop of liquid pie.
A man far down below he sits, his hands are branches long.
He grows each day and ever stays, the source of right and wrong.
She bleeds deep purple lullaby's, while children drink them up,
Around her neck she wears a charm, that's bound to bring her luck.
A man crawls in and cries to her, for opportunities gone,
but he cannot stop his soul from this, he breaks into a song.
And from his hands a bubble blows, and pops into the night
With sun and moon and stars about but none can shed their light.
The twisted gate like hands it bars the way into the grave,
while one small kid hides bruises gleaned for when he misbehaves.
They jump right off his cheeks in song, and dance a merry jig
and with a bow, and some fanfare, each turns into a fig.
The boy grows feathers on his hands, and paints a picture bright
Where wagstop birds soar high above, feasting on the light
He pushed his thumb against a nail to see if he could bleed.
He grabbed a ball of linen dust and promptly planted seeds.
There grew a mighty palace, with kings made of pure gold.
A woman who was young and fair, then promptly became old.
The tapestry's of finest yarn, adorned the hall of Gods.
And terrariums of fish and birds and little candy frogs.
The kingdom cast a wary eye, on all who play with birds.
They pulled the hair of all they saw and even those they heard.
The prince of castles near and far, could not prevail at length,
for vanquished in the end he was, by the yonder velvet skank.
Exploding into colors, the man surrenders throne,
but beware of those that talk too sly, for the salamanders they are prone
But back to angels high above, who cry sweet lemon drops
and come to earth to sing us songs that will our every crop.
Of Gods on High who show us all the mysteries of time
and play on fields of sugar cane and feast on beds of lime.
I'm sorry now for on this page my mind had quite a spill
a vomit of my intellect, my creativity and will.
I'll wipe it up I'm sorry but, I simply cannot sleep.
when too many things are in my head, last on my mind are sheep.
Sorry about your Indian rug, I hope it does not stain,
I better leave and not come back (for I may just vomit again).
For caught in mazes far too hard, Each thought longs to be free.
An angel passes all the rest, and shouts down from the sky,
a music note falls from his lips, a drop of liquid pie.
A man far down below he sits, his hands are branches long.
He grows each day and ever stays, the source of right and wrong.
She bleeds deep purple lullaby's, while children drink them up,
Around her neck she wears a charm, that's bound to bring her luck.
A man crawls in and cries to her, for opportunities gone,
but he cannot stop his soul from this, he breaks into a song.
And from his hands a bubble blows, and pops into the night
With sun and moon and stars about but none can shed their light.
The twisted gate like hands it bars the way into the grave,
while one small kid hides bruises gleaned for when he misbehaves.
They jump right off his cheeks in song, and dance a merry jig
and with a bow, and some fanfare, each turns into a fig.
The boy grows feathers on his hands, and paints a picture bright
Where wagstop birds soar high above, feasting on the light
He pushed his thumb against a nail to see if he could bleed.
He grabbed a ball of linen dust and promptly planted seeds.
There grew a mighty palace, with kings made of pure gold.
A woman who was young and fair, then promptly became old.
The tapestry's of finest yarn, adorned the hall of Gods.
And terrariums of fish and birds and little candy frogs.
The kingdom cast a wary eye, on all who play with birds.
They pulled the hair of all they saw and even those they heard.
The prince of castles near and far, could not prevail at length,
for vanquished in the end he was, by the yonder velvet skank.
Exploding into colors, the man surrenders throne,
but beware of those that talk too sly, for the salamanders they are prone
But back to angels high above, who cry sweet lemon drops
and come to earth to sing us songs that will our every crop.
Of Gods on High who show us all the mysteries of time
and play on fields of sugar cane and feast on beds of lime.
I'm sorry now for on this page my mind had quite a spill
a vomit of my intellect, my creativity and will.
I'll wipe it up I'm sorry but, I simply cannot sleep.
when too many things are in my head, last on my mind are sheep.
Sorry about your Indian rug, I hope it does not stain,
I better leave and not come back (for I may just vomit again).
Fantastic. that was pretty dang fun to read :) I like it a lot!
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