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Buck65 - Untitled
i wander the fields and listen for the sound of drums,
the colder the ground becomes, the closer i get to home.
the planet's not fit to roam,
what, with all the chaos,
but when i saw the savages, i played the law of averages.
and when the river splits in half,
i start to lose my wits and laugh
and cry at the same time, there's nothing i can do about it.
even though i wouldn't doubt it
if the winds began to blow,
and carry the sounds of my voice to the land below.
so i put my hands around my mouth and holler to the sunken city,
that wallows in the filth of its own drunken pity.
and wait to see a signal but a signal's never seen.
eventually, fatigue builds inside me exponentially.
and so i sleep, and dream that i am able to fly,
they won't expect a man with wings.
later i awake in agony and learned
that while i was sleeping, the city had burned.
shrugging my shoulders, i pause and gather thought.
think twice about staying put and then decide i'd rather not.
so i press on in my agnostic pilgrimmage,
knowing that i can swim deeper than the grim reaper.
ready for whatever sea creatures may abound,
when the water swallows me and not the other way around.
survival song ain't through the mechanical district,
starvation leads to being cannibalistic.
i've had to rely on cons, and silence, and on talking quick.
defending myself with nothing but my walking stick.
i've never had friends and no parental guidance,
i'm wild at heart and weird on top.
i'm feared nonstop, even though my rage is worn out.
my life's a book with several pages torn out.
i just climb trees and look for rhythm everywhere.
i used to be the town crier in a city of stone throwers,
until my soul was laid bare and displayed in the pearly square.
and lord, more than a lot, not less,
no one understood my thought process.
i was gagged and bound over noise complaints,
but commanding the resolve that destroys constraints.
i found my escape in a melting of memories,
the next thing i know, i'm rowing this boat,
and blowing this note on an old tarnished trumpet.
ever since then, i've been wandering lots,
watching the sky and pondering thoughts.
strange angel, music box genie,
behind for some time and now i'm blind in one eye,
and how this happened exactly will never be known.
my thoughts take the shape of the hangman's house.
never fails when the time traveling salesmen visit.