You sell fuel to the sun
To build bigger guns
But when the world burns down
They’ll be nowhere left to run
But still, you’d let the world drown
Before you’d rid yourself of a single gun
But what will do you when there is nothing but your guns
Your skyward friend won’t be there in the end
But you’re acting as if your guns can defend you
From the sun you fueled up
A sage was traveling on a country road by horseback. Hiding in a bush along the road was a thief armed with a bow and arrows.
When the sage came to the thief’s bush, the thief jumped out of the bush, aiming his bow and an arrow at the sage.
Without concern or care, the sage got off his horse and surrendered his horse to the thief. The sage then continued to walk down the country road as if nothing had occurred.
This confused the thief so much so that the thief unthreateningly approached the sage and asked, “How come…
We are just candles to the sun
That will one day burnout
Only having had
The wick and wax granted to us
Existence is a chain
It’s links are life and death
It’s materials depend on the welder
Their bellies full but they hungry
An angry mob can be a hungry mob
Their cups full but they thirsty
An angry mob can be a thirsty mob
Their lungs full but they choky
An angry mob can be a choky mob
Their rests full but they sleepy
An angry mob can be a sleepy mob
Their houses full but they needy
An angry mob can be a needy mob
You’re good
You’re bad
Drawing Circles
You’re happy
You’re sad
Drawing Circles
You’re peaceful
You’re aggressive
Drawing circles
You’re calm
You’re panicked
Drawing circles
You’re bad
You’re good
Drawing circles
You’re sad
You’re happy
Drawing circles
You’re aggressive
You’re peaceful
Drawing circles
You’re panicked
You’re calm
Drawing circles
My dearest dopamine,
nothing can contest,
you are the means
to lift a scene.
Even if it’s just for a few
no love could be more true.
When around you
I remember that the time of our lives is all we have.
The game is over, not literally but practically. You can’t recover from a 36 point deficit with a minute and 43 seconds left on the play clock. The only reason I didn’t leave is that my glass was at the halfway mark. The sports bar I’m in is typical; faux wood paneling, cheaply framed sports posters, and I have sat alone on a scuffed stool. As if compelled by our mutual loneliness, a mayo fleshed, trucker attired, fellow turned to me unprompted and sloppily spat, “The American spirit is dying.”
Upon hearing this, I did not question the man’s motives…
Anthony David Vernon
*insert corny and or generic bio here. Perhaps include accomplishments, something about my cat, a joke, or some fanciful language about how I like to write*
