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Oct 2015 · 323
any question?
sonicchild Oct 2015
what has become
of the godly nature of learning
of the haunting charisma to yearn
for what has been unknown
for what had been made unknown
spiritless words are drowning
the truth, left untold
Mar 2015 · 613
sonicchild Mar 2015
do birds dream of dreamy dryland?
flying, soaring, roaring
captured in the enigma of the vast sky
pondering often, much less
about the swamp of the highland
of the island
of the low tides, that ride across oceans
spreading dimensional volumes of chaos and serenity
euqally, equally never though

misunderstood the platonic shifts
the globe revolves around itself
hiding its trail like a criminial mastermind
through the galaxy, ripping apart the cosmos
flying in darkness unwary of the past
concerned of the future,
only goal to set ablaze the multitude of stars
shining its own light from across the universe
an explosion in the sky
perceived by the very eyes
of the bees that thrive to make honey
sweet nectar

pollination, spreading seeds
far, afar from the mother root
like a wildflower drifting with the wind
of deeply crafted notions
spreading across nations
like a wildfire moving down the hill
sometimes up, yet still only filling
a thrill of moving against
of situations that arise
from within the minds of howless wolves
comfortably numb in the ice cold of ages
crying from within
the flock of sheep that it wears on its sleeve
honesty lives

buzzocks! bizzare, blatant, blunt
bulls chasing the motion of the picture
that lies infront
right infront the holy effigy
of moronic morals
played in the minds of infants
like the best selling vinyl
from the greatest rockstar of the lightyears

lost and forgotten, and found and preserved
in the mighty hearts of martyrs
entombed in the ground of wishful thoughts
flowers and flowers
long, relentless buzzing hours
of sobbing over what has become
revelation drives a madman
Jan 2015 · 924
sonicchild Jan 2015
'Twas just a dream
Enough to **** the sleep
Mongering fantasies these eyes can't keep
Of that which a heavy heart is filled                              
Is not, it's not yet ready to spill

— The End —