Drinking deeply from many wells
in ghostly guises and hoary tales,
along the suspect and circumspect
jagged edges of a not so easy way,
(when all have had their say)
and what did it really mean,
or was it just a scary scene?
Revelations and tribulations wrapped
around with long and jet black hair,
of endless erotic dreams and schemes
that fall tumbling and bumbling,
(as we so merrily stumbling)
fall back and lean upon the one
of imagined themes and endless sun.
Grappling of grapes and fermentation
in twisted shades of devastation,
not considered in this world or
beyond the walls created by the fond
(and fairly bubbling streams)
of neurotic neurons escaping far
from this harrowing, narrowing star.
Dost thou know of what I speak?
Or should it simply fade as bade,
by some who deem and often seem
to confine and dine upon the rest
(of simply striving souls)
who drift away upon the wind
conceived by those who never sin.
copyright r.b.franklin 14/04/07