If a penny and a fountain
had a moment to speak
then our time would split open
revealing a mind weapon of copied dreams
that and self wasters
through all empty hopes and thorough thought chasers
chasing a new life that glitters like apples
That of which is strung in the palm of a madman
A hawk in his eye and a grip of no kind
Windless he gapes, is left out otherwise
The bounds of this man, the treasure he hears
Are easily collected through penitence and fear
And to his all seeing eyes it's so positively clear
He is an extra!
He has sold his detection!
When it comes down to it, he's just a vibration
But out knowing regulars have nothing to
He's just one of you!
He's Bourne(<--on purpose) of a scoundrel!
An un-ignored breathe unemployed greed
Awaiting shots at his reach and partnering schemes
And all the while he screams through his own potion
It's fine, It's fine
My plan always in motion
And just through his irises, asleep under cover
Is a triumphant bird, that's been buried by rubble
Because flight is too much for one stroke of the brush
But birds behave better when pocket sides blush