Stung, logophilia chances to dance from circumstances that seek amelioration
Posted on by Benjamin Southall
The partridges return in their dance
Through the eye to the tiger, time flies
Black leaf of red tree leads to minimal satisfaction
The intertextuality replaced by misfortunate circumstances
Rapture still remains with Euphoria broken and crying
She wants to go home, but nobodies home, so there she lies broken inside
Tooth for a tooth, wrestling fairies endure suffering but don’t find Buddha’s wisdom
Still hassled by the askers and the silent placing their judgement as they blink , they fail to think , relying on good taste and instinct.
Misheard words echoing through a room till the resonance takes over, the symbolism lost like a isohedric clover
Mistrust, contempt along with licquorice over powers the bitterness that rests in my fingertips and pulses through the air currents as they float by me.
Psyche and Cupid’s wasn’t told, the lovers tryst, the gods rage, the plots to thick to fell and be processed into Disney gold.
Aghast and elated the chance so fickle quickly metamorphosizes into hope, which like the Babelfish makes it so obvious, and the smokers of logic choke on their pipes, calling for plumbers
The boxer and Galileo suffer in silent penitentiary one ensnared by ideas, the other set free.
Words not said, packets dropped, lost in overhead, echos of silence, threats of violence , as the zombies recur throughout the echelons
Wisdom comes and then goes, as pathetic minds have buffer overflows because their thought rate can’t accelerate and their actions only serve to exacerbate their clouded judgment.
The music and bird song that is supposed to soothe and calm, instead incites the brewing storm , disregard left the window open late last week. The monsoon comes , the rains begin, even after the floods are gone, there remains the wind.
Today I saw the sunrise, and it made me realise, just how much I was missing living in the city, though they are gone, these words still remain, reiterating and proliferating through the thought palace.
As they say we are moving ahead, but to where and for what ? Points outside of a Cartesian space, clothes spun from invisble lace, black marks on a speckled face, the dynasty’s silent embrace.
May your checks not bounce and you resolve not falter, and may you always have a crying shoulder.
Benjamin Southall aka Appleman1234 🙂
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