What's specific,
and anachronistic
doesn't belong,
in my song,
though the influence
is so, so long.

Wisdom is our aged,
until the brains smack,
and becomes so soft,
like junkies in the cold
scoring with no luck.

There's this street,
that still be-littles,
A little sweet corner
once of child-hood feat,
and the visions,
scatters little marbles
and waffles chocolatey
contrasts & hide illusions.

You can put my scars in boxes,
but in moves this family
and of course their children
will open me up like toys,
undiscovered like tombs,
in dusty old rooms.

Prettily are the saintly,
innocent to the history
of such an old mansion,
red with such suspicion.

Demons are not in hi-ways,
they belong in the temples
of pre-existing and our days
Only God helps them trembling.

Too many wraiths exist,
in such historic buildings,
They need to be bull-dozed
not kept like a museum.