Unfortunately, the world is what it is. There is only one of us. I don't play the games to gather a list of fools. I am genuine and don't stampede with the wandering herd. I am my own thinker. BS doesn't fit me.
..it's my Beetlejuice and not your karaoke dancing with a shadow and memories with whimsical pistachio green shells listening to the coffee pot's concierge paint mustaches on the ink well's clam sliding on the escalator without a destinator it's my Beetlejuice and not your karaoke
fasten me a dream tracing shadows with fingers of wings softly touching over the pillow's rainbow of memories planting and eulogy of echoes held at the circumference of life by grace in the middle of what is...
I have no time or tolerance for fools or those who cheat at rainbows dark stands ajar with an open-face though the silence speaks louder then the sweeping gross negligence of the clueless as life passes them by playing jabberwocky to a shadow with a catcher's mitt, thinking they are Oz or those who cheat at rainbows
Feeling free and belonging Sweet Joe-Pye-weed and butterfly beneath bonnets of trees to age the nectar of scented petals moustache with the windows down winds awake Sweet Joe-Pye-weed and butterfly listening to my Papa snore and wink an eye
..locked in my memories tasting the needle like a brooch at night sirring the kittle a picture of your corpse of a fine tickle in silk stockings as you arouse the weevil raising the dead from the dark cold shekels locked in my memories tasting the needle
Silencing me twilight with winds of a troubadour shaking rocks of monotony over my grave Da Doo Ron Ron no shadow too far watching cornstalks stumble to greet with no cud to wallow or cuttle to phone freezing in this frigging indisposition waiting for henchmen to free me from this bin with a rusty old toolbar's jaws of life now skating on formaldehyde's thin ice listening to the sounds from the dead letter box silencing me twilight with winds of a troubadour Da Doo Ron Ron no shadow too far
In the attic of antiquated memories an old wooden pencil gathering dust lonely with a mind of its own no inquisitor to sharpen its bone listening to silence peeling its paint to bleed its graphite into the night listening to the poet below banging on his frigging Lenovo using Alternative Intelligence, proving, no inquisitor to sharpen its bone
in remembrance of Quasimodo with the breath of olden's short winds like unseen presence leaves of dead driven like ghosts fleeing bones of men with a little less chin and matted hair but the character of the man is in the treetops
Unheard requiem on the silent streets of shadows falling Autumn leaves echoing Ave Maria home from the maddening charade and the buffoons in memories, of how we danced when we were but pages in the High School Yearbook of shadows falling Autumn leaves