In some indirect way, about how if we lived like predictions forecast we will have to, if we went through all that rationing and draught for but a few days today, then predictions would have more motivation to not come true. Looking at how only disaster is predicted, this would be default an improvement!

The Turnings

There was a time when,
I thought I could still remember what was then,
But I forget everything, a case of young stricken college dementia,
except the fact,
that everyday,
I am back to ground zero unless I chose to play.
And outside it seems great or grey,
because nobody wants to take responsibility,
which means in this case,
dance in the rain,
or say to someone complaining,
that yes, it was me all along that started that weather song.
And then there was that other time,
you know, when you lived in the other-realms,
those outlands, for O! so long,
and all that could be said of me,
whenever you where gone,
was Idk, idk, idk... eking out warped like an ancient haunted vinyl player.
So I was there too, I guess,
in a world of lack-of-no-material distress,
In in it expressed is a feeling of embarrassment,
One fudge factor behind saying I simply forfeit,
and before the race even begun,
homespun my weave was living it.
Leaving the distrust to the curbside,
along with whatever clandestine rubbish,
that a puffed up ego can hide,
and leads to a sort of intoxication with life,
that strife left the city such blessed,
that it is the seat of dones and undones yet to do.
Again, plain as swine rolling in half-baked clay,
I marked the distance of tomorrow from today,
cast off the misery of the forgone bygone,
a repetition endless like the sirens song,
long longings too oft held a-sway,
to end, to have swindled them and not played the eternal day.
O lonely, effervescence. Dark swamped heart,
Pull a half-Hamlet and let the better split,
fall away like grease from a boar spit,
pores stuck out at arms range,
closer proximity, the greater is the pain,
Yet gain measured in half measures breaks any bill in twain.
Money printed in the honey ink of philosophy,
will drive an economy to a most glorious reign,
of gilded silver vessels, and life coated,
in soft, delicate, oozy cheery marmalade,
served and offered by a silver tongue,
just to anyway turn into the same dung.
Higher the dimensons,
of dark hued crimsons,
crystals of painted blood, colorless pigments, bridging me to you,
Struck quite whimsically,
the clouds parted chromatically,
and bit by bit the blue bird of happiness sang and flew!
To eschew a lover, is a certain type of cover,
that says today I will be better off than before,
and yet, the door not quite closed,
you (not fully clothed) return to this hither,
and whither we go from there, happenings happened,
to breaking ground for a new age it doesn't compare.
The fare may be costly,
but mostly because it was said with a voice so haughty,
the ferrying plans were approved,
and now, all the lonelys, the unfulfilleds.
can be sorely moved.
But to better- I am just confused.
The muse of one wise,
wrinkled and way past the smarts prime,
can only caution to others young in spirit
Simplicity, simplicity, wrecked in this atrocity,
has to return to the destroyed cozily,
inhabited youth of long past that no longer shines.
In such words, there is a sense of divine,
a caretaker, beyond utterances of yours or mine.
The hind of a acoustic play,
near and always followed by is the roadies rind,
of fried octave ovums and little diced fate cards,
which add a bit of spice that was missed in the lighted hours.
Cold glowing hands place themselves strategically,
mesmerizing people with bad circulation,
who see red, white and black all over,
but imprinted in their minds is but an only,
a slender tease of a silhouette,
of what the wretchedness of our current read all about its may quick beget.
Still accumulated is the drier love of the impartial,
those champions who can see it fall either way,
and harbor no wish or desire,
unfulfilled, to wile awhile their speedy, Wiley trials,
as all is said and done before,
except that, there is a new consciousness, a shining door!
To twist is not in ones own hands to decide,
It is no mantra- no I love you,
Not such a simple open sesame will suffice,
but a dire need, a fill-in of ultimate sacrifice,
may do the trick, but only barely,
and when if but it was a just mere trickery.
In a homily-cast sky,
any poor beggared will look at himself and ask why,
and in a devil twisted orthodoxy,
the monopoly of that guy said this,
and justifications in the name of religion,
fly, with flying colors.
My eye can not see all the trespasses,
all the times gone astray,
but turned aside, is not always turned awry,
and it is the stone angels only then that cry.
Lighter their tears fall, and unfortunately,
the only drinkers are beaten to lack any wherewithal.
Gravity might as well not make tesTaments fall.
Yet past commanding stones, buildings also have risen,
and they are not the only high rises,
Between factories and modern production,
the world is full of new surprises,
But the crisis is not in marketing this fine globe.
Shown hitherto, is an enterprise,
called hold on tightly,
and close your shiny peeled eyes,
because when you wake up,
mother nature, or the spirit of these green fields of earth,
May not so readily lend a hand.
Or even say sup?