Fame droops through the soggy sunlit trees,

Fights the image proceeding the iron look of my own,

Concentrating the juices from the sour apple machine,

Frail, even though it could be great, you are not, ‘that way’,

I’m not entitled to suck your filth passages,

This cave deep within where no one goes, and where even angels fear to tread,

Within the recital hall, pronouncing my displeasing drama,

Casque me in my own fantasy at least I will be free,

Free to interpret a fading dream,

Romance charades in flocks of complicates,

Damaging delicate minds, eroding oceans full of acid and stones bribing the moon for high tide,

Musing to figments of imagining stairs, that have marked their territory through playing games,

I sing to the hyenas that choke to not hear, spewing chuckles that burn holes in my ears,

A mirage will blow through the snow plowed flower field and pitch me into obscene.