| Stella Link |
| Mindscape |
He peeled the eyelids of the sleepy town back,
To find dark rimmed cataracts of feverish souls.
The forces that propelled the inner machinations of clocks,
Hands and minds full, their legs stepping differently,
In an intricate pace, while the seasons were bitter with progress.
Autumn’s drift slides into shallow foot wetness,
Leaves, like toes, skimming across water with ringlet drips.
Elemental coldness slipping into silken garments of multiple chills,
As streets wander, cobblestone fragmented and crackling,
Dancing with hollow yawns, and dreamy sandman sleep.
Raven’s bellow beaks like fire furnaces, tongues puffing hot air,
Tightrope walking on wavering power lines, feathery weather vanes without roofs.
People below, twisted in lunacy, cowering behind bloodshot eyes,
Riveting them to meaningless drivel, lackluster sleep.
Factories beckon the death shift, packaged meat or contraption parts,
Stinging whispers in their ears categorize and evolve in frailty,
Anger assaulting their beings as a radioactive explosion of energy.
Dissension fights their strength, while the skies unfold orange,
A paradox of clashing color eats away at the skyline, eroded and depleting,
Buried away by its inhibitions, fading into the towns faint sharp edged arches.
Finessed and forlorn, a calamity of steel forging, slaughtering people move forward,
Forgetting as they slip into the day with a daze and erased like a funeral shroud.
He, as the overseer, God, Jesus, and Buddha mixing methods as a paintbrush slip,
Melding as entrapment, swollen ants racing towards death without fear,
Guided without knowledge of their overseer, slovenly servants of lowly serpent girth.
Gifts within themselves, mistaken for apathy of mechanical work, sad allotments,
Of species and space, wasting space in disintegrated beauty.
The town races on clay feet in circles, confounded by life, while autumn breeds,
Gathering piles of leaves and drinking goblets of coldness with frigid teeth,
While transfigurations of Christ do not emulate the shaping of their minds.
The transportation of townspeople is limitless and enamoring,
Despite the shabby grinding away of their physical compulsions,
They are filled with intelligence, speed, and contentment.
To find dark rimmed cataracts of feverish souls.
The forces that propelled the inner machinations of clocks,
Hands and minds full, their legs stepping differently,
In an intricate pace, while the seasons were bitter with progress.
Autumn’s drift slides into shallow foot wetness,
Leaves, like toes, skimming across water with ringlet drips.
Elemental coldness slipping into silken garments of multiple chills,
As streets wander, cobblestone fragmented and crackling,
Dancing with hollow yawns, and dreamy sandman sleep.
Raven’s bellow beaks like fire furnaces, tongues puffing hot air,
Tightrope walking on wavering power lines, feathery weather vanes without roofs.
People below, twisted in lunacy, cowering behind bloodshot eyes,
Riveting them to meaningless drivel, lackluster sleep.
Factories beckon the death shift, packaged meat or contraption parts,
Stinging whispers in their ears categorize and evolve in frailty,
Anger assaulting their beings as a radioactive explosion of energy.
Dissension fights their strength, while the skies unfold orange,
A paradox of clashing color eats away at the skyline, eroded and depleting,
Buried away by its inhibitions, fading into the towns faint sharp edged arches.
Finessed and forlorn, a calamity of steel forging, slaughtering people move forward,
Forgetting as they slip into the day with a daze and erased like a funeral shroud.
He, as the overseer, God, Jesus, and Buddha mixing methods as a paintbrush slip,
Melding as entrapment, swollen ants racing towards death without fear,
Guided without knowledge of their overseer, slovenly servants of lowly serpent girth.
Gifts within themselves, mistaken for apathy of mechanical work, sad allotments,
Of species and space, wasting space in disintegrated beauty.
The town races on clay feet in circles, confounded by life, while autumn breeds,
Gathering piles of leaves and drinking goblets of coldness with frigid teeth,
While transfigurations of Christ do not emulate the shaping of their minds.
The transportation of townspeople is limitless and enamoring,
Despite the shabby grinding away of their physical compulsions,
They are filled with intelligence, speed, and contentment.
