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Victorian & nonsense
flag over a sunken coldness.
An obelisk raises hopes, a bridge connects souls,
An orchid leaves its scent, characters will not bend,
Roads always diverge, around a tree love struggles,
Hurting it, bond cutter knives, no deep repent.
Another scene made of clay, hot, colder, next day.
A child raises his hand to a passing young woman,
Seated at on old stairway entrance, she is not seen.
Seven years, has lost her mom due to attack of a man,
Angry child climbs the Victorian stair losing self-esteem
Another scene made of clay, very hot, colder next day
This is not what I fucking want to connect me to, I say
Another scene made of clay, very hot, colder next day
Fish jump out of the pond, sun bright along the way
No subject may attend such gathering of inconsistency.
There may be whores, bulls, pinnacles, tools, watches and more.
Apples, pineapples, ascent to machu picchu, sign of Ophiuchus.
Relatively slow, the serpent’s most wished capability turned it sore,
Cause everybody wanted the death alive, well and playing baseball.
At the balcony a mother of five cries for not having lost them all.
Another scene made of clay, very hot, either way, colder the next day
Another scene made of clay, very hot,
either way, colder the next day
O why you force me to write
Things so patently not bright
No interest whatsoever, if I may?
Another scene made of clay
One must be offered to
An entity of the underground,
Cold is far from evil compound.
Your path isn’t just a day,
Why do you lose it
Never a word about birdlings
A praise for his mother
An offer to the Gods
Describing the youngsters sons he should
Some leashes are made of clay
Some broke, others just decay,
What a drama like those three Classics we praise,
Or that whos pentatonic hexameter sonnets,
While Luis de Camôes produced epical lusiadas in decasyllable art...
Cannot be compared, not the plays I say,
But there isnt as an integrated full epic poem that bothers them, not Petrarch’s sonnet,
Read Cames sonnets,
Not after Dante’s Inferno,
Or do like I do, wait for your demise.
Forgetful that your dick cock richard pop,
Still could rise, like a flag over a sunken coldness...made of death flesh, not of clay nor colder or hotter the next day, mere decay as autumn leaves and the cat you slay. Let the cat go, join a gang of thieves.
