by Thomas Feliciano
There was a meditating, contemplating, absent-hating drop of goo.
That saw a mesmerizing glittered eye-span tell no lies, and cut it loose.
A stumbled-fumbled, mumbled-humbled, gambled-crumbled, phenomenon.
From the land beneath, below the crease, of boiled grease, not nearly gone.
It flew atop the clouds, the silenced-loud, with lions proud and chimes of change.
And crashed against the waves, into open graves, the weak leading the brave to the house of strange.
Death cannot be escape because a man’s not an ape, it’s a shell not a shape; blind only seek flesh.
If you fall to your knees, then you may need to freeze, truth melts the degrees as it soars through the test.
But the oncoming swarm was for goo to reform, toot-tooting a horn: a victory bell.
Although struck with a blade, it was soft to be made, on the floor as to pray; removing the spell.
Last updated August 14, 2011