Psychedelics_r_best
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 16, 2004
- Messages
- 2,049
Processions of such sequential numbers lined up along the curb
To denote the bearings of an odd collection set out upon this drain
There lived a number 1756 that around this desingation set his pains.
Five paces to the corner street and another four to the liquor store
To this he always went when his pains returned and so he walked for more
Returning to 1756 he sat upon the porch for it seemed a place to sit
When nothing came and nothing went but the sympathies of grit
Lofting breezes in the teeth of time and the absence of a known resource
For which one could go to find and know a cure for idle sips of a course
Not found in the families of numbers and their accounts
Set to follow their traditions in ways only dreary amid their vain surmounts
To lives gone by and spent through tired repetition and unidentified quietly
Pacing forth and back across the possiblity of self significance and due piety.
So he sat sipping on his brown bag that hung down between his hands
Until the echoes of unsettled minds fell below the porch with tiers of glass bottles
Holding within the air received from time signed off to the uncharted lands
Of time that sunk in sorrow among the dribbles and the draining bricks
Passing only slowly down the streets leaving behind the designated number 1756.
To denote the bearings of an odd collection set out upon this drain
There lived a number 1756 that around this desingation set his pains.
Five paces to the corner street and another four to the liquor store
To this he always went when his pains returned and so he walked for more
Returning to 1756 he sat upon the porch for it seemed a place to sit
When nothing came and nothing went but the sympathies of grit
Lofting breezes in the teeth of time and the absence of a known resource
For which one could go to find and know a cure for idle sips of a course
Not found in the families of numbers and their accounts
Set to follow their traditions in ways only dreary amid their vain surmounts
To lives gone by and spent through tired repetition and unidentified quietly
Pacing forth and back across the possiblity of self significance and due piety.
So he sat sipping on his brown bag that hung down between his hands
Until the echoes of unsettled minds fell below the porch with tiers of glass bottles
Holding within the air received from time signed off to the uncharted lands
Of time that sunk in sorrow among the dribbles and the draining bricks
Passing only slowly down the streets leaving behind the designated number 1756.
Last edited:
