Magical Mysterium Towards

Plausible is the scuttling sound in rays from a drifting presence of sun. Green from regular trees blooms on a modest boat of feeling. The people, in their arc, treasure something of very rascal plain. Sour common of lived places reject the sward, sometimes, and a language of bells ensues. The Beatles struck a rock of mired glow, worded with refracted topic sentences and a tiresome song like “Ballad of John and Yoko”. Season blends into tree bark, dogs lead an earnest trust, and the usual kids stumble on the grass. Reason stops the uniform when sunlight backs away from the stage and words are more like shadows. People are as old as their feet, or stout chairs in the presence of god. Weird instants replace other instants, merging with hard balances. No one wants to sleep now, but the emblems fizzle. Blunt objects restrict themselves in the time it takes darkness to spell certain names. Keats died for no one’s sins, in the cluttery days, with a wink towards some transit of station. Then poetry subsumed intention, shares of the new model were offered, and the process turned a corner. Now all cats climb onto all tables, dogs continue to die, and the Beatles will not really disband. The varicose veins of these impressions start to make sense, tho making sense, itself, is a duffer in the park. Kindly dance along those lines now, which have been freighted with feet in time.