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Poem

the matter of scales

We, you and I, who don't believe in a rose
scented heaven, painted by a five years
old child who has a mother named Glady 
Nor do we believe in that place where 
stokers go, tired of an electrified world 
I know of a man on X who is doing his 
best believing in a friendly God, that
must be difficult for a man who wonders
if he is a deity of wealth.
If I go before you, I like to be a memory
dwell there until it is time to go 
and become the non-returnable
As we sit on a bench that has a lone
tree and swirling fog, we can talk about  
the Savanna, when I was a lion and you 
were a gracious giraffe called baby
We can also reminiscence when we 
were warthogs, lived in a hole
with no hope of having a bath unless
it rained so much that our cave flooded 
We can also fry to nirvana, a place that
is less colorful and has an echo of 
wishes not fulfilled.
Failing that, we can go to Iceland said
to be the most peaceful place on earth
by those who have not heard the rumble 
of earthquakes
The aber is the island has no trees if
we should get bored and hang ourselves

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