A bit of macabre, I had been to many forests
Little riddles and a couple of animals hurled themselves
Of kilograms, of sureties and my travels brought me back
Seamed at the lengths of cat whiskers, take my whiskey and match the lions' proud gaze
And **** my softness, and sing my dancing mind goodbye, a boy in the forest
The little riddles often, turn up as jostling for the first word in the birth of the Sphinx
Too bad the one who has the last word is the winner, a riddle has been put of for well-fed and well-bred streams
The good and evil, the small-breaths of life count out my spoken silent footprints
What do spoken word and streams have in common?
A source for the force of nature, and battlecry beyond the firewall
A mirror of reflected futures, adding a proxy to the person someone loves their bright mornings on a jungle
A little benediction and derelicts would bring us to a halcyon jungle at the foot of the hill
Caves in passing, we found footprints in the muddied streams (ravines)
To rest in the places beyond the few-men of Irish streams, that flow in the penitent ones, case of passing freedom
We looked for a violent altercation to occur before left the reconnaissance, but, we had the time out of the lakes that allowed us to tread on leaves
I hope the basket wasn't yours, but, the places of tracing out a caution, but maybe, reaching for the firepower on stars
Crazed by the words beyond our grasp, and praying to worlds, the dedication is all in our hands or in the hands of the forest boy