It was not a glass menagerie of thorns
it was a a flower house...

Time is spiral film
a reel...

_why are the mockingbirds mocking us?
Is it something we said...

And the clock is ticking,
and the time is leaking...

Just losers brag and flag
their wining...

We float in present
spreading in past...

The sunflower blooms
in me aren't as bloodthirsty...

I was looking for heroes,
being ignored of the fact...

On and on forever
the perfection lost...

He mumbled:
_for a man who writes just for his shadow...

Grace is a sublime state of consciousness
when the pebbles are eroded and round...

All my innocence
couldn't wow a wolf out of...