Trippy Dreams Revised
Watermelons, wine, and whisky set the tone….
For lines pertaining to pterodactyls, tears, and rainbowian trauma alone.
For creaking black-widow hornets are now commonly known.
Thou distorted faces will collapse beneath my bleeding bones.
In the rye I sing; like olden times, trippy dreams survive.
Fevers frustrate Hungarian horseflies within dreams far away.
And I wonder why my mind spills phrases that create dismay.
‘Tis not Elegance archives which formulates a plot to isolate the impoverished?
Should mental downfall, not physical, be visible to butterfly-lions that exhale beauty; inhale courageous?
Rather than minutes mocked by companions who turn black when smiles flourished?
In the rye I sing; like olden times, trippy dreams survive.
It’s the same ballad, cold coffee, and receding hair.
Even Upside-Down Land plants fish in polluted waters.
No end? No end! To the pressure applied on the colorful-ist days?
When purple seagulls can finally fly alongside clean shores.
And laser-eyed cardinals finally determine what will rather than may.
In the rye I sing; like olden times, trippy dreams survive.
To say my breath is the wind….
Is to contrast bane and a beautiful sunrise: Begin?
An inhale is a punch; an exhale is a kiss at songs’ end.
Like forty-thousand virgin cries at climax during formation of kin.
Saber-tooth whales breathe fire, but butterfly-birds sooth pain.
It’s madness inside my mind, though I have everything to gain.
In the rye I sing; like olden times, trippy dreams survive.
Robert Alexander Deason Peace
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