Blind sighted, the lines they dance to pipers unanounced,
Lion's hiss, the spark and bounce, that'll traunce the transient,
Posting yesterdays warnings, a dustbowel gone, wiped out with the men and mice,
Sold per once, the heart folds to the house, and the stakes and stacks are fatter than the buttons can support.
Is yesterdays news?
Or a repeat of history
Someone is pounding the icon, on the page
And they say bygones will be bygones, and this is squared, and their ties are checkered patterns blending into the floor and air.
Goes the voice, silenced by the dissent majority that refuse the hero's call?
It is all the ball that'll rattle its call in the chasm, a self-made satiare, with sharp knives instead of fingernails, and a hole in their imagined heads. Wail.
But it aint the golden tone of a six stringed axe with 40,000 back-up singers filling the belly of a cacophonous house, it is only the strange omipresence that fades into these symbols.
They can giveth reality or taketh. Thine goblet is merely a vessal for one to soak up the supposed essence of myself, and if you don't like it, ring me out and hang me up in the midst of a gentle wind. One of those ones that come in, stage right, right before a light drizzle flows in from stage left.
The more we tarry on, the supposed "Elephant Vanishes", as Murakmai puts it,
carried away on ballons lighter in their gasous content than helium produces, it goes away. Away floats pretension.
The Way The Way The Way The Way The Way The Way The Way
Meant To Be
Perhaps we're neither holy nor free, would you at least humor me?
(Such dastardly notions and commotions)