Weirdness
This mind holds rage,
Collecting thoughts,
With keebler elves,
Stealing my cookies.
They sprinkle there chocolate,
Turds in my eyes,
Yet I try to tell them,
This milk is spoilt.
Baking on there pan,
The flower burns so cold,
Smoke turning to leaves,
That branch among the trees.
In autumns' wind,
Spring resembles fall,
There embers staying open,
Rushing there stormy dream.
Copyright © Justin Robbins | Year Posted 2011
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