untitled.

I couldn't quite fathom what it is you believe.
I remain standing still in a tranquil state of confusion, the stature of in-depth conversations falling short... failing to intrigue the listner.
Words fall from their mouths, spill from their pores.
Scriptures of the ancient are chanted.
In the center of this monotheistic utopia, you are as average as the followers among you, resembling less than what you've been taught.
You've learned to catch each shingle that falls from the shelter above your head, and to clear each plate from the table of those who eat.

untitled.

Go ahead and fall before the next ship that comes along.
Snow flakes will fall, and you'll be gone.
It's a somewhat darker shade, a somewhat deeper blue.
So let's take a trip over to Antartica,
Oh sweet pea it's all for you.
We'll bring a telephone, and a tomb.
a lamp, and a rug.
It's all enough, worth a night full of open eyes, a kiss, and a hug.
Goodnight, sweet dreams.
Shoulder to shoulder, or so it seems.
Falling numbers till we see sleeping with silence isn't half bad.
They took all you had, a forgetful vision, a tranquil view of equality.
Our robot empires will know what to do.
How to clean this mess up and bring the pioneers who were flooded from this town back to us, back to you.

A gnome.

You live in an apple tree.
Candles lead you back to sleep.
Owl's wake you when dreams are unsafe, and sunshine drips upon your plastic face.
Sipping slowly at the shallow pond.
Passing glances back and forth to the others among.
Wander back to your sickly home
It sure is nice, being a gnome.

untitled.

Remind me please, I kindly plead.
Pure breath of fabricated, artificial, fictitious whispers.
Forged mystical beauty, simply a fradulent immitation of another.
Ambrosial memories linger past your deck at hand.
Volitale palindromes make me feel ill.
This is what you get, when you forget to thank oxygen.
Carry me in a carosuel, drip your sanguine fluids at my feet.
Your grey hair has grown so long since I've been gone.
I found your name across the chapel doors, what a riteous suffer for a fallen land.
All that's left is wax, and an apple core.
Your lovers angel kissed your palm, and sent you off to bed.
In a concrete store, at the end of the street is where you reside, screaming neon words.
Loud as the traffic in your fallen land. Have you been here before?
and your words washed ashore.
Seems like your playin' this game right.

untitled.

Let's trace te compass points, and defy the work of which we do not understand.
Run accross these stretching acres, and conquor this lone land.