If you have no purpose,
Don't sit and think to yourself
At the end of the day,
What a shame it is you got nothing done.
You did exactly what you planned to do,

Nothing.
And sometimes,
Nothing is all you need to do.

Thanks again
Trimming banquets of ice-ish tunnels of growth and decay,
Like swords and staves abound each day,
Like plenty I follow the whim of today,
Please help us all form a new day,

Easy come, easy go,
That's what the white-liner says as it goes,
For me to be free inside of my sea,
I'd often need a place to be

Stencil-streamed mud-clipped boots,
Eiffel tower disguise,
Brilliantly wrapped in a corona,
Of sadness and delight

Un-burdened I dance,
Stinging silently across,
Aqua colors,
Symposium of disaster they call,
Whom life?

You speak of as if it was betrothed to you alone,
Or some ghast faint reflection
Someday the purpose of creation,
will creatively in-twine, over
and over again

Dis-purse, dis-purse,
like cool mists of glee,
showers of gladness,
inside droplets of peace

Silencing call of passion,
When you talk of 1800's style vintage
Perception no-one knows, but when you see
Gross underwrites with turning phone dials
You wake
A part of you discovering you
Like a wheel chasing itself you laugh
Hradly suspicious of anything else
I hear the fragrance of Canada is
Calm except for the penal regrets
Of solemn senses