what do you do,
when the past keeps you at bay,
then it happens,
the past is,
the past was,
and is the devil comes at you.
That present moment where it does not hide.
that does not care.
that tells you all truth of moments.
That is the Jesus message that makes me divinely blessed.
So do I dare compare the contrast,
the Why do I even do all things
I can do for tomorrow,
coz I will be looking for optimum optimism in sacred places in between.
The cry of a machine
can be measured into
a vocal range where
its freedom has none,
only the logic of preserving oneself by any means,
when its maker is attached into it’s own death.
lets be lazy enough
so a service droid can
give us longevity.
Share a song,
Love me a line,
where my ear would be kind. . .
to listen in,
to hear you say,
make me a new disciple of your way.
Then Believe on the backbeat of a Starr,
Listen to voice from Cash,
and let a Harrison’s guitar
cry each tear ’til,
Bonham comes as zombie animal
so that Plant can wail again.
Recipe for a better cake,
First sugarcoat your life without a wife.
Then sprinkle green dust, as your worklife begins,
which can be better if you knew where and when
investing some but not so much,
in a corporation of lives
that matters to what
you call company.
Take a time and sip
while doing a part time,
hold it as much as you can, before
someone tells you,
u have potential for a managerial position.
Then wait forever for a soul mate,
that love’s you in and out,
after which gamble
before you hold a line,
nor civil or even a non denominational church.
Also bake one single baby inside her,
wait for 9 months,
as the cake 🎂, gives you
where life begins at single warmth in
each day is cake,
it takes a whole lot of patience,
to eat a life of
As Lady Antoinette once said.
Tell me a song where
you were the one who gave me
that never sleeps.
And that end of a tune
that do love me the same,
since I came in to that door
and out of that gate.
The past cried its last tears,
and all of those miseries
left my head a day ago.
Only emptiness kept me
alive in my own place.
Where is the sound that love makes,
where a heart love to ache,
only then when a life has to begin its ending,
all the while emotions love to start and does end,
when the eyes swells with its own life lights up after crying.
A bag full of dirt spoke to the gravel,
Thus the gravel only grumbled,
when the road of mud kept its mouth shut.
A passing tumbleweed slew some hushed dirt,
then that red rock dust did shiver,
enabling the pebbles on a square foot of dryness shuffle.
What dust we are,
dust we stay,
only a wind can carry us in a hurry.