Here's another one that I did while talking to myself...
Image by Murtaza Ali from Pixabay
Mellifluously convoluted in the brave, I surrendered onwards, ever onwards, and bare-skinned to the bones in my knees and over-parking against all my better judgement to boot.
Oh, I want to light a candle, hide in its shadow, elope while I still can; but I’m just Sunday talking stardust and thinking things that drift away as they’re thought.
Well, if you haven’t got bounty hunters searching for you by now then you must be alright proclaimed my dreams hunting me down.
I was tied to the sword silently.
I was the love grain here.
I was my only heart.
Silently open and speaking, like a love poem to myself, I became to myself what I sought.
Shoot I said, at this; and shooting I shot straight. I’m my own master in my aim; but in the reach I always need a guide to keep me in touch with where I’m going.
See feels gold broken free…
The laugh of an onion…
I know absolutely nothing at all in the lemonade shun-shun. I’m but Sunday talking stardust all over about it.
I’m my mainmast.
I’m my moonstone.
Yeah, I’m the love grain.
I’m my broken heart.
I am the missing silver spoon.
I’m no longer hungry, but I’m still crazy and painting my pictures in the lemonade shun-shun, radio coming up through the floor, and mating rituals dying in my bed.
I am Senegal and floating, the lover’s outreach.
I’m the noon-blade.
I am things falling out of my tree.
But I never wear Wellington boots up to my ears at any time, mostly.
I am the singer in the song.
I am the beautiful eclipse of the moon.
I am Sunday talking stardust…
Image from Pixabay