Well, not as a dry poet sucked out of a pot and drab to it,
no fella! it’s gonna be raw and straight.
Point and shoot! bamm!
swift charged down as the crash of stock market.
A loud growling sound of sky monster as he wails down cold,
it shreds the drum of my band,
striking a quivering shock of electric guitar.
Though, the ruminating classic saxophone is eerieng,
a thrill in my gray eyes, mused by the plasma,
inside a looking glass of cornered cornea.
Well not an aurora of my aura, no Pal!
it is like an eye piercing white sun, straight up as a nuclear blast,
burning down the tree of life to coal igniting hell: lava red.
Peasants are mouth tapped,
by the rug shaking under their feet.
Legions are of falling sun,
as their arrows killed pigeons of pacifists.
Unheard of wrinkled body of an old orb,
smoked like vape- arid, lastly weep of ocean eyes,
to swipe the tear down sun-burnt son of toil,
well not as a dry poet sucked out of a pot and trapped it,
no fella! certainly not me: showcased monkey of zoo,
whose heart is brittle than the frog of pond, yearning for thunderstruck!
As even moisty misty slight blow through the window,
could chip the crystal mind palace,
point and shoot! bamm!
shattering into sober-up chunk and shaft to pit.
In the rigged bare night under mushroom kingdom.
