Lyrical Sense

It all makes sense

It doesn’t make sense

For soon they’ll run its course.

It all makes sense

It doesn’t make sense

And soon they’ll be no more.

All that is knowing, We can all lay to rest.

When all is said and done, that’s truly what’s best.

Come to Pass

What Joy I see

It was a moment of ecstasy.

Now that moment has come to pass

Lay by side with your Bonnie lass.

It is where we all came from,

Came and gone at last,

So now we rest

After the same song and Dance.

As It Is, As It Was


Praise new hours,

  a ticking clock to the foreign loss

  and familiar social pressure on a 21st century turn.

Broken and fixed,

  broken and fixed,  upon the repeated more beats and thoughts

  and proof of provocation of those of the past idiocratic splendor.

Fortune’s feed back, undue splendor placed on self fear, hatred and robbery.

Cast all such portrait demons to an all masters hell.

Say in the name of the father son and ghost

Free minds peaceful charged exorcised and true power striking reins.

I steer my pride,

I hurdle such thoughts

Laugh at such sites of un-dropped splendor, catching mason and craft.

See my talents psychological draft and draw.

Such for lust and delivery for souls mat and cut drive.

Charge, Charge, and Charge some more.

Watch in awe

  in strike and power do beg, do end but draw based on all forted fruition.

No master late on its drawing baited charge and as such martyred peaceful to its so called bitter end.

Yet no, no pressure built in the provoked dark heat and obtuse sexual tension,

Slight off hint and light of shuffle,

Always brought on by some Judgement, some danish lack of timing.

What Lacking?

What struggle?

What is this so long entrance of an exit?

Bolstered maintenance set on the told stories of the withdrawn world of the all true  contrived nature of a man’s word or attempt of strong bronze thought and singing  pathos on the corner stone of another contrived building on its foreign even rest Mountain.

Do mountains not erode?

Do winds not blow?

Do waters not draw?

Who is such that they resist these beautiful tides?

Is it true my friend?  The days of the self inclined blind fascist died with the very men and days themselves.

Make a point not to bored the change of marker.

The everted assembly of the now too true, nonessential of ending,

As it is and As it was.

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