wind in the pines
tear the rot out by the roots
to the cobbled cortex of my masses
considering your guilt
somebody slipped molly some molly
used to be sombreros married 10 gallons
all there is, is time
a silhouette of meaning
so i take down the last of the peaches
high in the iron wood
I look in the mirror Puzzled by what I can see It makes me reflect.
perhaps here in Vishnu’s darkened basement aerie?
But it would not last, this trip down the yellow brick road of bright shiny objects.
Oh now he’s overheated?