High
High
Got a rinsed sensational feeling after too many
Fantasies, puff puff with no passing, drinking
From the clay pot off brew, a fortnight stirred...
Traditional brewage that seize minds, trapped
One, two, three jars in a rush points to unclear
Maditation and rinsed contemplations in odds
With blared visions. An illusion posted awry, it
Being misleading and culminating into pranks
Brought back to the margins of humiliation and
Predominantly ulcerative colitis from political
Inflammations, guts burst from its irony, harmony
Peace and tranquil as ever spelt in raved nous...
Memory being a brainstorm, a translation of
Nature being so beauteous than ever, Whomever
Refracts bitter sweet liberties, yet brother's we
Are ever busy as ants in built of a hill with rains...
Copyright © Wilson Waison | Year Posted 2018
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