If you are looking for that thing that indescribable thing that stout drank under a bush under a summer eve
then the latent offering wrestled internally is the place for you to be
If the Silverback had left his hat and beard upon your table and if you were able you would plant it
as a small sapling placed in liminality and with an expected growth ratio that would make communitas but a breath
a death on the badge of a life-activist someone who dare not take a risk
The T and the Price he is more than nice
He is delicate and intricate and buried deep in the place where treasure is found
Its like the Cork clan have found their sound
And the tremors rattle the time and send out a sign
And little ol’ me is sitting by an out-of-focus tree
and pondering time and insane rhymes and liberal and lost theologians without a plot
that have misplaced or ignored the chase to discover the poet in all of it.
There is a man with a stick and a wife on a horse and in the middle of the muck is a heavens amount of luck
and when the fire gets lit from a little kindle its easy to hear the windles and ponder a dream and a possibility
And little ol’ me sitting by a fractured and tender tree
Suppose its time to Baker and Jones the whole landscape and redeem the scene and hover in wait
for there in the distance just beyond the trees ain’t no forest but a lake lying in wait
scented and prepared for the open and weightless gate


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