Might it be that our creations
deep from within the womb of the bard
are the real sovereign resting places
tethered to hills in our mental yards.
the delusions we adeptly create
cushions us from woes and the grief
allowing for at least a tidbit
of life's pleasures and relief.
whereon we do dance and twirl
till our souls create the route
rocketing us thru the heavens
loitering, till the stars burn out.
No comments:
Post a Comment