when the last thought of the night slides through the backdoor of consciousness into the dreamscape, words do not express a repeated song won't repress the cycling thoughts. i've got to...i've got to...i've got to...i've got two...i've got too...i've got two...i've got too... nothing will save the day. the kittie will still swing from the dragons clenched teeth and the iguana doesn't know how to swim. pink puffy clouds will ooze sludge onto the dried leaves and cracked blacktop. smell the rotting carcass. it feasts on the hearts of the youth. once lost and now found. blinded with the hope of sight.
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slides through the backdoor of consciousness into the dreamscape,
words do not express
a repeated song won't repress the cycling thoughts.
i've got to...i've got to...i've got to...i've got two...i've got too...i've got two...i've got too...
nothing will save the day.
the kittie will still swing from the dragons clenched teeth
and the iguana doesn't know how to swim.
pink puffy clouds will ooze sludge
onto the dried leaves and cracked blacktop.
smell the rotting carcass.
it feasts on the hearts of the youth.
once lost and now found.
blinded with the hope of sight.
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