Eleven hours past'
Since I left her nest'
Thorn thistles are whistling
I gotta' soul that won't listen

Tell me little darling
Are you the one I've been thinking about
Or is there something else
That's gotta come out?

Corner stores are empty
With our favorite fruit berry punch
I never was enough
Or ever that much

Long through the reeds which whistle naked and seethe
Toward a black horizon with no starry sky
Only the depth of the human lie

At last the point of knowing
Has reached its end
I can longer urge
To bend to send

Toward the peak of ego
Which breaks and lets me go
To and so far fro

Yellow lined start ups
Telling their substitutes
Their temporary
Absolutes

Knowledge dances in-abolished
With nothing holding itself back
But the collage of
All of it

Where the scream of the butterfly
Dances while it
Sighs

Weary word traveler
With the internet at hands,
What voice is there
But the trickling of grained' sand?

Where do you go
When you have no more paper
To pound your sorrows into stone?

To the mall
In the fall
Where you know (in secret) your already in the
Fall?

Or to the woods
Where you should
Put that ear down
To hear that sound?

Enough of the laugh riots
With the sight of the tight knits!
Enough with the misery pits
And all those pimply zits!

At last the scream of sanctifying ceremony is nowhere
Where the wings of fortitude don't exist in books
But in
Reality!

Saving the last note before the
Entrance
To paradise

The echo of one's
Pound
Share's the echo
Of one's
Sound