In blossoms of springtime,
Pink and yellow to scream,
Mysteries of the days past,
When in whites a wise slumber,
Had opened up the hand,
Alone in woods my eyeland.
Drowse mistaken false fantasy,
Pearls and shadows purple
Cast in every scene
Wishes to hold close and made mine,
Then thriving beneath an afraid kind
Clutches on but hollow pride
To ideas in lecherous divide.
Sherry Sherry lips divine,
Hallowed be suns crime,
Mistaken lady in country shrine,
And wonders echo rains sublime.
Under the sodden grave he lay
Surmising legal beings
Whispers in days of seeing,
A bird to Martin another
Chalice kingdoms long forgotten,
O but Photographs dying to exhale
A tale mostly in greed discussed.
Of championed character this time anew,
Hollow confessions duly researched
Where the phallic ritual richly decorated
A used rubbery mane, culturally comforting
Diseased holes of noblest offspring contested
A filthy identity worn shamelessly.
Picture this he said in decay,
But storms holding their way,
Framed! Yet escaped the door,
In between. This my holy lore,
There a man on martyr’s gate,
Had fallen to the camera bait…