Rather a flaccid child. Not good with his hands,
he chose the high up clouds for his deceptions.
Yet now he never seems to feel or smile
nor any of the rainbowed raves of living
placate the westward ravel of his guile,
neither might the clowns of heaven save him.
Once above a mind, I saw the playground
that rain had pelted red- this was the town-
the vision seemed to roar like some dog-driven ruin,
its reeling state of mind, as empty as a tear.
The open gate beyond the sun was closing,
what followed was the naming of a sphere?
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