there comes a time.

when we will wake to smell roses our eyes can no longer see, while we're still gasping for oxygen, having fed the Al Gore rhythms for so long, for it only to amount to a puddle of.. some beans (not even enough for a small casserole) it leaves one flopping on the shores of a big river, where we've come unglued while in midair and land to reform the broken pieces of yesterdays life, determined to find what is worth our efforts each suns rise. oh yes, we have such sights to show you, but will they ever manifest into solid form or will they spontaneously shatter under the impatience of fog that surrounds.

For now, we can tell the difference from a pillow and a stone but have no clue why one would throw the latter. yet in this wounded world, so many just point and laugh, meanwhile teaching their children to shoot first and ask questions later. to who though? Don't ask us, were just improvising, our allusions' a harmless flight, can’t we see the temperatures rising, we radiate more heat than light.

Long have the Medici's of our time dictated the works of artists with promise of a stale crust of bread and thus labeled them as starving, forcing down the creators own insights of that time into hidden paint-overs and symbolism's. What would the form of these masterpieces have been if they weren't lead by the carrot on a sharpened pointy stick, would Mona Lisa still smile upon us?

take my hand, look ..don't you see..we all have an empty cup ..only love can fill


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