A serious time.
A serious light.
Chants from behind,
And steam powered drums.
Four minutes to write.
Like ordered waterfalls
Or tubes of feeling
Sitting on the shelf.
One for good,
Another for perplexed,
One more for spiritual,
But his happiness is almost out.
He walks to the store
To buy happiness.
He looks through the door,
And the opaque takes over.
It fills his mind,
But not his soul.
But he takes no notice.
He goes to his aisle
For the usual feelings.
Confused, blank, sorrow, and hope.
But happiness is out of stock.
So he takes a plane to his shop.
He drills holes and points,
And lines, and nothings.
And connects his corners.
Not in a self-intersecting way.
He performs his potion
And creates a miracle.
Once done, He has his happiness
Bottled up all nicely on his shelf.
He takes the vile and pops the top,
He drinks the soul and ragged slop.
The happiness tastes homemade,
But he knows this is better than trade.
He takes his excess plane
And the holes, lines, nothings, and points,
And stores them away,
Just in case of a rainy day.
When he can't go to the store to buy his happiness.
But it's too late for him,
He added too many points
And the plane wouldn't suffice.
So what he drank
was his own sacrifice.