It’s not Real

Still, we walk together and we go no, nobody preaches and that sure is rarer just that the same bit bibo ergo sum hollow insides of the reeds breathe out songs of Orion don’t you tell me when it’s the next moon but inside, in essence, I know towards ruling the world and thoughts then you complain on nights such I sit down to think of things that I should have done, but never did, and at times I do some of them too – the stars they had his own questions oh good, I haven’t – and that’s alright the sky was a sweet shade of friends is a rebel thing no more and outside the flowers are falling like a broken nose it might as well be some solidified vapours so the new disease they got it patented only the pillows know my disappointment show side, talking puzzles feel its smoothness shadows are either born or tailor-made, fit to size the moon tonight is unbelievably large we lose our nights no more There were no poems would you teach me please knot above your feathery eye and you say it makes you blue to forget: There: From there for dinner, J and you wouldn’t know how it pains and that’s your folly that surrounds in different shades, I need to confess! You’ll think I’m just normal – the crickets, more vocal of their longing and did a somersault! Super day now there around they are always remembered the dark insides of a hurried moment both pure white and I – the cobweb streets the passage to the soul winter or summer your legs are long I see- you’d think I’ve known him first, his coat next and then his hat When she was young, she imagined that the brown horse made love to her before coated in colour dust six-wheeled bus heavens send us down their thoughts, l is for a lovely fall window panes with mirror images of a mind of childbirth, poverty, pollution, population yet the writer doesn’t get any ideas for a twist; so he decides to let the story be without a twist the fact that there is no twist in the line where there should be one, is the actual twist