girls flare white dresses with flaxen hair,
using mirror, glass is true, reflective debonair
we can't be solemn, was the murmur of the crowd,
but now they're all screaming in the trees out loud.
What's the lucid sky doing, in its attachment of bells?
I try to retrive it, but all I can hear is yells.
Zombies are as zombies do, is what they say,
but they can't go any other way all they say.
They just sit in their chairs, staring at the faces,
of what they once felt, robot shoelaces.
I can't derive anything anymore,
in the concept of a life force
the fuel is much like the tree sap,
from a modernist needle.
Long haired men, continue their songs,
on wheel forced carriages, strolling along.
it's legendary, it's implied by the streaks of gold,
it strolls into the medolodic streets, they will never look old
they say concepts don't exist, and maybe that's true
the pyramids just wink, and turn into the night of blue.
A girl crunches up silky wrappers in a star spun car,
distorted by any regularity you may have thought,
bent into a cosmic kitchen, of what you may
Inkyness turns into fuel for hay,
activations are just a computer's say.
Tiredness inflates by a fresh sun's rays,
in the animacy of a spotted oddy,
a sea of no-edge gray.