October Poem 15

My fingers, the very near future rebellion.

The tallest of take.

Confused and completed.

The chest mount advantages.

Light as a mist, a mishmash.

 

The strong arms and his kingdom:

Dirty rage, one dollar earth.

Not fear

But one man’s hate

Made him look like an owl.

 

And he had an open vagabond approaching.

His clothing worn from his wallet.

He has compiled.

Plastic tables.

Cold lunches flipped.

Replaced with a top lagged

Little behind ready to eat.

 

The night turned black

The low walrus and his lungs

Consumed half of his firs bag.

 

What a head

To let the world know

What happened with Christian blessing!

The Westboro hags disguise the truth

About faith religions.

There is no proof but him.

 

What use did I have of language?

I kept chanting the same five words of light:

What a dearth of information.

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