the raging man couldn’t stop thinking about a certain love — it was just such a low and bizarre plight of foolhardy fun
nor could he remember the planet’s silly fate — a thing that reminded him of an old film he had watched on such a lonely night of weight
he was shocked by a strange feeling of fright as he found himself feeling rather melancholy and curiously light
his mind always churning about a feeling that looked so pale and grim
the world was quite frightened by a man so bright they thought the situation had become rather dim
never remembering the old film everyone so loved and admired — he thought the world was nothing but a mire
they tried to distract him with a bomb — but he said it was time to start thinking about the mob
he couldn’t stop thinking about a love that felt so strange — the bird took flight like a morning dove into the crazed array
the strange dove of love was like a lucid dance into the mist of the fading afterglow — never remembering the funny little things he had forgotten so long ago
the wildman took a dive like an iridescent cowboy as his mind mutated into a chronic wasteland of snow and fragmented ice
he couldn’t stop thinking about the strange feeling — a feeling that felt rather nice
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