PITFALL ART

The Fourth Wave

Part Four: Ten Minute Sketch-a-day Weekly Finale.

And where is the one that you said was a holy creature?

The mountain is cold and dead, I see a different feature.

Python saints faint before a king who has a different poison,

He’s gonna bring the boys in,

It’s a halfway different ordinary opposite without being offensive,

who’s getting defensive?

In the half baked imagination of a guru, who can only count to two,

is my vision true?

Because the Tincan Orchestra is right before ya.

The sound of steel, and now they’re caught ya, sport ya, bought ya.

Like the pet who just happens to be faithful,

There’s nothing disgraceful,

But the tool is helpful,

Eltham.

Is there something more sinister, that they administer, am I prisoner?

Or a breed apart with ears that listen carefully, can you spare me?

It’s getting cold and winter’s not ended, the lambs aren’t defended,

And maybe you see the feast is over, there’s always clover, where’s my dog rover?

But who has the luck? How do these things work?

Is number 13 that turn for the worse?

Or a challenge for another awakening, what’s the pattern we’re breaking?

And the big talkers finally proved their god was money, I guess that’s kinda funny, still such dummies? we get just crummies,

And the cycle is now set to continue, I wouldn’t say I blame you, the smog so hard to see through, and each little true true.

And the balance is shaped in the shape of a half truth that grow in the minds of the half youths, who’ve halved their destitute institute, carved from the eye of a ottery newt.

Oh yes, I see the shady characters, actors, factors and aimless wealth extractors,

In an infinite loop of nothing makes any difference, but my stiffness, and the expression, of a new personal dimension, of my ascension, in a dualistic serum demonicon.

But the rhythmic osterich that we call emotion, removed from a potion, then swilled like a notion,

Has extracted a space that leaves me stuck in a feeling, I’m winding, I’m reeling, but no one is dealing, with the collapsing ceiling,

So I ran to the street, it seemed like a safer place, I had a bit more space, I pulled the scarf over my face, I needed to leave before there was a chase

Then I came upon this villa, they were singing like Phyllis Diller,

And there was a man on the ceiling, I understood what he was feeling, and he was singing like a gorilla,

How I got in I couldn’t now see, but there were walls around me, no longer free, caught inside a new tree,

For each path is just another new branch, with the same chance, in the life dance, with your own stance,

And the last memory that I think I had, wasn’t that bad, or really that sad, but am I still mad?

Not asleep, I’m awake now, I don’t know how, but the sacred cow, doesn’t. have to kow tow.

In the — In / Zeal / Un / Zeal — of the opposite arrangement, without your derangement, in the shape of engagement, whilst no intention but estrangement,

I with think things that seem like the opposite, of what’s in. the deposit, and the terms and the conditions, what’s my mission, do I need a decision, or is this the root of the schism,

In the inside / outside shape of reality, trapped in banality, have you ever met me? In the time of less than a second, and did I mention, with reality’s suspension, we enter a different dimension,

And that would be the fish and the water, and the age when you bought her, and the fishtank before ya, so you adore her,

then in the last minute, when this might be ending, no more pretending, but soon I’ll be sending, the last three defending, the space for the mending, where I can say I’m free, to say what I saiding.