Bird Volcano Event 2

Biro Volcano Event 2 (Never Your Problem)

by Walking Doctor Tonnan

Temptation dozes with the roses who grow salvation in snowy meadows that yesterday shan’t know,

and so I stare at frozen skies where herds of angels arrange the changes those stranger can’t owe,

yet a sunrise starves away again and then a ten-eyed hobo flexes five toes to perplex twenty conniving crows,

who arrive with plenteous time to shed slurred words like rhyme and hurl sublime lime at their surviving foes,

where wintered worlds hinted at freezing trees and mythical desirous spires of pleasing hedonistic highs an’ lows,

for if my needled speed was superseded it was because it might have guaranteed freedom or lemon curd gateaux,

but the amber sand dance advances upon happenstance’s chance as circumstances became absurdity with code,

and it sowed hurt onto a colossal road of finite saviours chancing an egoic banjo dance nobody’s myth slowed.

Wrought thoughtless by wise deft eyes who left sympathy slain,

untaught by the daughtered skies who knew the sea full of rain,

caught by the free who sought thunder's wonderment to retain,

raging brains fought to contain the refrains brought by that arcane.

Clever tricksters bicker & hooligan vicars whisper in forever’s nightly domain,

shouting about how forever or now are never the time to politely complain,

reclaiming entertainment and the enchanted cant that the refrain can’t explain,

as if to renew the blue moons whose veins replay yesterday’s slanted pain.

You who knew to wait at the gate that predated fate’s sacred gain

sued not the cold to control the fools that older soul schools detain,

though yesterday may understand that it was not forgotten in vain…

shouting louder than the proud crowd leaping to its rotten campaign.

Your body lands on this plane a commodity trained to explain or entertain

whatever oddity remains after forever’s crafted laughter drives you insane,

but chicken-thighs surprise the sunrise-guys who betray yesterday’s pain

as infinity’s seas pave thru pleasing mazes to the grave of every birdbrain.

Another might requite the other to mother a fight against another's law in vain--

to requite presence standing on the fence where thought-crimes fight to be slain--

caught by the sublime pens of men whose rhyming truths were wrought to contain,

warring yesterdays that poured tomorrows’ mazes down the sorrowful sound’s drain.

Ambivalent apocalypses tormented wherever the abandoned tools went,

with atomic artisans apostles fermenting a small percent of a cool segment,

in which strangers slowly & surely & sullenly & suddenly strangers circumvent,

as the automatic angles accelerated fate to prevent a presented present,

as an army of angry-warehouse-ants shirked situational pretence,

and hence restored surety to those standing upon the dented fence,

to talk to the chosen men who framed the frozen flamingos in a tent,

reframing the mythical width of the diffidence their yesterday sent.