Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Poem, Satisfaction Sucks, 4-12-2011

The hungry and empty
souls wander throughout
the globe as if wholeness
was not for the devout,
but for the wealthy and beautiful
ones of the lot,
even though this patterns
no shelter from drought
of love and acceptance
from humanity sought.

But on a full half of us,
resides the true answer,
the breasts of true love
dispense juice as if Astor,
was your benevolent uncle
and the Queen's alabaster,
bust thrust your completion,
and the sun your soul lights,
to explosive illuminate bits
of pure passion,
and drunk with epiphany,
waves come a crashin'.

This odyssey lets you rest
after your done,
in feather soft cottony
songs which are sung
from angelic beings
within your own head,
and around your soul's
asking and melting the dread.


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