Gord

2024-06-28 06:38 pm

In Her Dreams

Everyday she grew more cynical,
Forewarned in the way he spoke.
'What makes trees grow?
Speaking indignantly?
Lazy, form english is what bees know.
Maybe there is more, maybe not.
Leaves, and lace upon her form,
Leers and mistakes on a forum,
Leaves and paces about a home.
Lady Clare, is this what you wish for?

Mais oui, upon meeting, she says,
but may we not once she sees him again.
She begs, making peace, but, maybe not.
What is under the stars, outside of the bar,
Yet above us all? In her mind, her.
But, actually, God. 
And he sees her like I see her:
Alone by herself, just of her mom.

Lo, girl, grate your feet, arms to nothing,
Cognizant, you can see what's coming.
So, use a word to cut deeper, I mean, 
Maybe there is more, maybe not...
Say please, and release the lions...
If a cognate speaks of alm, as always,
Bet a fool falls, autumn again, as always,
Winter follows.

Bees, on their belly, in a playful sense.
Wallows about woods and streams.
Striped appearance, demeanor, feelings,
He exits the scene with grace and dignity.
Asking the same, but bees scream, race,
As always, it's just the way things be.

Swallow a mouth full of eggs, and honey,
Forward, fundamentally things are different.
Not just you and me, for everyone that sees us.
The courts just take up space, mostly useless,
And friends never show up to court you, bee,
They treat you differently.

You are less than me, because you are less than nothing,
She says, and places her hands to the sun.
Youth burning away at her bloodied stumps,
Speaking in fear of a beast that runs, jumps,
Eating the bunnies she dreams about...