From the shade of leafs, it endeavours up the building, and crawls in through a screen, where it gets caught in a spiders web, where its twitching turns to screaming, as it is slowly eaten.

The crawly thing.

He wrote to please, and wrote of things that sounded like lies, up until they found the bodies, and disguises.

He torched the wounds, and assumed longevity in his nativity of babies, where he laid in a crib, to accept the gifts, of wise men.

He wrote of feelings, reeling in the fish, of the rarest dishes, swishing the poisons, of his potions, he anointed himself Man, standing proud with his **** out.

He was, and is, without a doubt, the weirdest sound your type have found, from your island resorts, to your wooded towns, you wish him near you, and its so.

The sun came in hot, peering through the shades, breaking the lazy day into sweaty parades of feet heading for the creek, where the creatures live in murk, and the plants reach up, and hurt, the fragile fears of kids, scrambling in a fit, from the monster down below, skittish, and all alone.

The watering hole.

The benefactor of tragic reactions, he made his traction in disastrous scenes, collecting dreams in his sleeves, as he grievously releases them on the next victim.

Victims.

Aren't we all.

As though a last sun closing over the mountain, the red rays, radiating the vacated valleys, and littered alleys all the same.

They are all gone now, but alive, laughing, smiling and playing in the cities, suburbs, and swamps, they think they are still here, but its been so long.

Its okay to dream.

It takes great defeat, to cry for victory, and the trickery is now in motion, traversing the air over the oceans in air waves plagued with poetry.

Fix my head, it doesn't care, bring out the dead, but comb their hair, mar the walls with what you found, lift it up, to smash it down.

I am not the man, you are looking for.