Time Fleets And Wait At The Shore.
The land is a cluster of mixed up thread
that fights the motion in a daring dread.
That makes day a year. That makes year a day.
That makes a bright cut through the brain, to stay
as it's the plain red burning a burnt toast,
fuming like a dry mouth- twisting the roast.
Confusion is a spin round in the head_
A soccer field in the mind of a shred.
Dilemma is choosing nought out of nought
Dilemma is a sweet time, ideas; lost_
It's like a bubbling stove outside a night,
It's the fume of white ashes in the light;
Blown to left or right, blown to right or left.
Confusion is a therapy, a cleft
that saves the mad mind; the full in a hole.
The past is a stone; a stone for morrow,
Morrow is a stone thrown from the old past
Time fleets and wait at the shore to its last.
"words from the innocent mind"