Parodies
From your parapet of pity you prophesize and proclaim,
That the widows of the tailors dug two shallow graves.
To mould the unmoulded into suits a crane,
who makes such dreams built of rain, served on a the back of your undiscovered pain?
A topographic phrenology that undulates the benign.. a course of repression not duly prescribe. While consciousness draws closer ticking over time,
we hear of other mumblers, shuffling for their dime.
Their mumbling over and over what's your sure once was mine.
Their mumbling over and over what's yours now must be mine.
So once again willing to put in the time.
Castaway your wings sink to the sublime.
Indulge in divulgence, balance the the unclean, tightropes are not mere nooses for a canvass set unseen.
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