My shallow stitches

Have broken

My old ways

Have come out

In the open

Order the new surgeon

In

To make me all good

Again

Thundering crook

Took his last look

At a table set

To make his own

Little did he know

That below the table

Sat a man

Who had the same plan as his own

As the crook grabbed the table

The two quickly became unstable

The alarm rang out

And they both went to jail

Together

Not alone

Bumpy folds

Where I go

When the night is long

And the days are slow

Over the crest of the

Starched shirts

Is a new day

Waiting to start

Howl into the day

The ones who complain

The most

Have the most jagged teeth

For biting and losing

Their minds

Howling late into the night

When I am sleeping off

The time

I have discovered language flaws

A pool above ground

Is still a soundly referred to pool

Where a full pool under the land

Is a pool as well

This seems injust

Wrong

Language is flawed

I knew this all along

Art in place

Hold the rat race

When the lineup is announced

With brims of smiles

Waiting to come out

Whether you make the list

Or are cut

The point of art is to

Create mastery forms of gut

Knock the apocalypse

With one hand outstretched

Reaching back with

A little further to wrench

Can we ask a Apocolypse to

Postpone

Some crazy hopes of tomorrow

Unknown

I just wanted to ask

If we understand the matter

At hand

Take it to the home

Of the light on the top

The rare bloom of birds

Singing in the morning breeze

Sets the tone

For an easy night scene