Mar 5, 2015
You flatter.
Pockets of piss, seldom miss, The warmth of which I slumber.
The pockets: my own, oft overflown, You pillage, knave!; you plunder.
So too, your empty muse - opine! Transparent, forfeit truth to climb; Presumptuous::Perceptions: - a truth intercepted; prīmā faciē - 'course the rot be mine.
Birthed of your fallacies, mindless calamity; Wake, go back to sleep.
We've said it once before, again, The problem? clearly me.
You'll say though, and oft you do, you know so much, so bright, so true;
That all's not lost, my mind: a box “If only I could see”.
