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ian-brian-summersPoems
The reasoning dribbles out in psuedo intellectual cadences falling from and into the blastema Circumventing the logic that bonds thought and action I ask why do i feel this way Lost in transient blissfull tragedy The willow is antique in the word play The building and destruction beget begining So why i ask Sullen gentel futility reigns in a Perfect transcendental mockery The world as we know it shatters with every question that undermines the veil A symboic statue growing with evety theory of existence Do you push on do you believr Do you have faith to comfort you in the darkened caverns of mind You ask do i possess this or do it possess me I sit upon this sidewalk An animal we call mammel bet the truth is we shall never know The cold air and sounds of a trucker and ill can do is say why Does he wondet does he have a mind does he think Or is he a happy idiot awaiting payment for his hours of toil Nothing makes sense just a glimpse we inherited along the way Love be thy prision of hope and dream Ive loved and lost and never do i sigh Its all a passing stream heading down the river of metaphysical nothing Could i love again Is it going to be real Or again do i pretend Cest la vie mon cherie
0
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 9:14 PM UTC
I and i will never be i
The reasoning dribbles out in psuedo intellectual cadences falling from and into the blastema Circumventing the logic that bonds thought and action I ask why do i feel this way Lost in transient blissfull tragedy The willow is antique in the word play The building and destruction beget begining So why i ask Sullen gentel futility reigns in a Perfect transcendental mockery The world as we know it shatters with every question that undermines the veil A symboic statue growing with evety theory of existence Do you push on do you believr Do you have faith to comfort you in the darkened caverns of mind You ask do i possess this or do it possess me I sit upon this sidewalk An animal we call mammel bet the truth is we shall never know The cold air and sounds of a trucker and ill can do is say why Does he wondet does he have a mind does he think Or is he a happy idiot awaiting payment for his hours of toil Nothing makes sense just a glimpse we inherited along the way Love be thy prision of hope and dream Ive loved and lost and never do i sigh Its all a passing stream heading down the river of metaphysical nothing Could i love again Is it going to be real Or again do i pretend Cest la vie mon cherie
ian-brian-summers
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ian-brian-summers
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 9:14 PM UTC
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