Inky dots and silver whims

make a toast for me to live

upon and past the endings of kins

where butter knifes jab into sins

take a hold of all that is

push it down

and smother it.

-

A beckon of love

so queer is the dove

who cries golden tickets

to up above

and drinks the poison

made of only elastic gloves

afraid of what is to come.

-

Candy gums and ice-cream plums

makes bubble baths fear the tubs

of porcelain whiteness

that turns to mud

flourishing a brand new song

which beastly caves echo into tongs

picking up the icing made from

pure blue wrongs.

-

Sins will sing

a piece for peace

daring all to plunge way deep

to a fake Wonderland

choking all that cannot win

drowning flowers of nightly weds

speaking with only deadly dread

footprints take on all treads.

-

Screaming voices of the lands

trample beetles with only hands

smashing all that enter bands

farther and farther

they land upon the drowning man

who cries himself to sleep at night

wishing stars would just ignite

his faithful dreams that wither in fright

too potent to make a decent fight.

-

Nonsense filters right through time

beginning a source of new kinds

that swallow whole all the dimes

screeching loudly with all the chimes

bending low and pushing high

everything is not supposed to be mine.