The quill's sodden ink evaporates
while this bell jar encapsulates
leaving these dreary words to permeate
only to rain back down and stagnate

this terrarium, my lonely estate
pickling eyes that spate
people peer through the glass only to deprecate
while I slowly start to acclimate

two horizons squint until light dissipates
allowing the darkness to overtake
monsters crawl out to dilapidate
snarls and growls devastate

this is fate this is fate this is fate this is fate
is it too late is it too late is it too late is it too late
echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate
this is fate and it is too late these echos verberate and I ruminate
I ruminate and ruminate and ruminate and ruminate

with a languid gait
a countenance set straight
while I desperately try to create
a happy blissful sunny green free state

it's not too late it's not too late it's not too late
meditate meditate meditate meditate
don't let the glass alienate
pick up the hammer and swing
                                                       till the glass B    E      K
                                                ­                                R    A      S.

When does the window shut?
when the wind ceaces to weigh?
or when it gets too cold?

here i am a catylst
of a console in creation
in the mind of minds of the mindless

in the seas of self i find the solemn soul
swimming to a coral reef
in rage of remeberance.

Polish your pails,
push on your pens,
began to paint your promising evenings,
pick out your underpants
Prepare for your sails for sea,

Gather your gaieties
and songs for a silent day,
take your time for sweet remedies,
prayers, and mantras without shame,
rather than toil with the shambles,
and pains of the day

Duty calls a silent whistle,
I can hear in mornings wind,
through the woe of every window,
blow a sweet heaven scent.