Sunday twenty fourth of June twenty eighteen.
She came by again and pretended to be a queen.
She was flat out of luck when critisism struck.
adding words without locaal, seemingly perilously fragile.
But when the reeper peered and seered,
Cutting through that feer with tear.
She wasnt watch but very near,
picking up on every were.
Our paths are different you and I,
Your reeper looms and is knocking by.
My path layes – throughtout the sky,
Not burried in – a hospital my my.
So on Sundays brings gods just deserts,
He livens up and sets alerts,
His reguime starts before the bell,
And structures the thinking like a magnetic well.
Magnetic Langurians hovering indeed,
attracted to energy and lowers our reed.
Where was the power to follow the land,
Its between our fingers – on the opposite hand.
Its not a band of brothers,
nor the lot of man,
nothing named, could ever can.
seem likelier than sam.
The concept, the idea,
the journey contained within.
Of getting off, without a scoff.
Makes me a better man.
Buzzing from the scratching,
Fully aware to show,
put nothing down nor loose my crown.
So nobody should know.