The fool, plays tricks on himself,
Knotting his head over branches of a riveting kumbuk,
Dancing over the hopping line between truth and superstition,
Bartering with the bard for his wit and contradiction of concentrated diction, to display his friction,
Over Colosseum hipping corpus collosum
For a fool forgets to mind his breath,
Watching the counting seconds go by in the succession of time, one coming after another.
The next illusion of discontinuity through fluidity,
Trapping a held moment in breath of no flow.
Failing to follow the proverbial advice in don't hold thy breath, let it go in the exhale.
The fool wants nothing, needs something,
but cannot decide to come down on one thing,
starting point of beginning a thin kings event.
Drifting like clouds taken by the wind,
Along the axis of rotating rocks piled on stones.
Dancing about his madness found in prancing around his non compliance with no alliance of self consolidated foundations for aesthetic apprehension,
With apparitions of mind forming matter burning embers for the toxic putrid smoke of dragons breath,
Locked in melancholic disdain of not needing, but ease of occupation ******* on the elder wands death by cigarette stick.
the demise of tom riddle's incline.
