Chemical to Off-Set the Preservatives
The mechanical arms of airplanes set flight to sale the same way ships soar to shore, all the way up heavy waves of wind, until we tear through the atmospheric thunder storms, steer this world of wheels into summers endless red heat, peeling back the crust with our crest shaped sheers, sphere so blue and pure, I notice you understand the ripening of parasites, the bug man has retired and the scientist are mummified, I stare in plain site at the pale in comparison sky, wishing for rockets, throwing rocks across stars. The stairs stain straight above you as you get lost deep within a pocket of dreams.
I have got paradichlorobenzene in my pocket of dreams, socket scenes, safety off as I reach down the seams of my jeans where stitches down the side hold my pieces of ordinance, peace of mind, peace designed by bullet screams, lights off inside hiding behind black window screens. Silence seeps through the streets and beneath the pillows where people sleep as the sap bleeds down the branches of the weeping willow.
From a pocket of dreams to demons of an angels eye, there is a locket of themes walking with wrinkles around your neck reflecting like light beams angled by mirrors high above the chalked outlines of pockets and sleeves. Deep into sleep where the weeping willow hangs and drips into streams to another planet of traced green, more room to breathe, less room to bleed, a blind man’s tears somehow drip down my cheek and this is what I see:
Pacific emotions prideful in the mirror, little miss self-centered of the universe, a censored mouth that speaks from the outside of walls keeping my house of hearts hidden high entangled with black skies, the truth, it still lies, I’d love to crawl into your eyes and see things, from your perspective-scope-closed-door center of the universe. Verse after verse we curse those chapters of misinterpreted handed down cancers, to prey on those who pray, an excerpt here and there from one nothing to one something, I’ve won one thing, that something is my pocket of dreams.
I have got paradichlorobenzene in my pocket of dreams, socket scenes, safety off as I reach down the seams of my jeans where stitches down the side hold my pieces of ordinance, peace of mind, peace designed by bullet screams, lights off inside hiding behind black window screens. Silence seeps through the streets and beneath the pillows where people sleep as the sap bleeds down the branches of the weeping willow.
From a pocket of dreams to demons of an angels eye, there is a locket of themes walking with wrinkles around your neck reflecting like light beams angled by mirrors high above the chalked outlines of pockets and sleeves. Deep into sleep where the weeping willow hangs and drips into streams to another planet of traced green, more room to breathe, less room to bleed, a blind man’s tears somehow drip down my cheek and this is what I see:
Pacific emotions prideful in the mirror, little miss self-centered of the universe, a censored mouth that speaks from the outside of walls keeping my house of hearts hidden high entangled with black skies, the truth, it still lies, I’d love to crawl into your eyes and see things, from your perspective-scope-closed-door center of the universe. Verse after verse we curse those chapters of misinterpreted handed down cancers, to prey on those who pray, an excerpt here and there from one nothing to one something, I’ve won one thing, that something is my pocket of dreams.
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