Poetry whirls down drains,
cruises down highway lanes..
toll free.

Poetry is a clear potion,
a natural motion.

Poetry is the bird gliding high,
and of course, the sky.

Poetry is thundering elk
through forests and glades,
and the wolves that keep pace.

Poetry is the ****.

Poetry is democracy,
and its unfortunate hypocracy.

Poetry is eternity vanished in an instant.

Poetry is a slaughterhouse,
a vegetable garden.

Poetry is cat and mouse.

Poetry ascends to descend,
breaks to repair,
it's uncommonly rare.

Poetry is the longest minute
and the shortest hour.

Poetry lives when it is dead.
Poetry comes from the body,
thought by the head.

Lucid silhouettes melt the air into psychedelic fluorescence,
realities cast upon fleshy darkness forgotten by the light of day.
Look on with distraught eyes as we dance through dark pleasance.
I wonder of God and Lucifer, good times they had in their heyday.

We race towards an apparent end; it's no apparition.
Return to your mother and her blessings, its time to meditate,
you've almost seen reality; can you finally see the evil of your disposition?
War, I mean ******, only perpetuates the hate.

Coercion and lies spread like wildfire, mystifying mind, body, and soul.
Buy that item, it looks cool. Six months later, obsolete, you fools.
If you've learned anything in life, don't get ****** at the troll,
and don't be scared at the screams at night, just demons and ghouls.

My mind is one hell of a maze, just got lost in a schizophrenic phase,
or was it spirits in the transparent haze, plunging back into my cosmic gaze.