The mind lives where scene four begins to doff,
staging directions for the front porch at dusk,
beginning summer days are hot and cooling off,
nice horses grazing in a pasture flowing of musk.
dreaming of still missing the dusty lost pony,
the day you came home and got a birthday prize,
in the seventh year of existence of being phony,
big ribbon around necks killing kicks at surprise.
plenty of big bows by the way had a lovely long lasting day,
then they were gone just like that as if they were always away,
the sun rising in the sky crimson can smelt the sweetness asway,
like a never never painting you can’t give away in a dark midday..
chaotic upside down turning went all wrong and got up early morning
why do you implicit on who did this and why be a horror and insist,
because we just told you sends regards and had a nice time without hearing,
you can’t hear what’s being said like you think seeing again will resist.
you get dying at least a little bit to get out of this place and find a life,
big city living of murderous loneliness as existing in a bunch of people,
the miles are empty all around except for the few cats inside of our strife,
driving the right kind of crazy and the rotting of your life’s steep steeple.
trying to get back that which you don’t want and it’s coming in fast,
it maybe they might just start pouring the details with anyone fun,
doctors and nurses prosecuting people way out of realities grasp,
the rain has a way to know what to say every day on the thin scar run.
red blazing traces are not so bad now that you’re frozen like a distilled life,
thinking and dreaming are two sides of the same space time thing,
hating this place never knowing a trace about people’s strife,
the depressed traveling ferris wheel begins to quietly sing.
working side by side a rhythm forms together,
we are mostly quietly thinking our thoughts in the rear,
there is nothing more to forget or almost remember,
the end of the day is near and it’s just begun to rain beer.
Transmogrification of play by R. Bauknight