The Needle Point Hardly Resembles The Track Or Dress It’s About To Make

 

Strange are the things that come from where.

Curiously wondering why.

Who said what and who kicked the cat?

And why don’t pigs and cats fly?

They try…

And want to.

Everything wants to fly.

 

The sky,

He points to, is a medium.

With small and large on the outside.

And if you fling a pair of wings

with just the right shape into

it hard enough, pally, you will fly.

In the sky.

Up high.

The sky is only there to fly.

He sighed.

 

This medium…

He points to the water below.

You can navigate by flapping again wings

but of course, in here, more slow.

Because it’s all much slower right below.

This air’s thick like syrup and if you

flail around in it, for a few seconds you will float.

Then sink.

You’ll slowly come crashing to earth in here.

But with eyes wide open you’ll crash.

 

In here…

He pointed to the universe center,

In here anyone can fly.

The entire frontier is open wide

And all a person does is go inside

And glide or hide.

It don’t matter to the guys inside.

They’re fried.

Heard the stories and hip to the scene.

They’ve been every bloody where in everybody’s dream.

They know that this stuff is never what is seems.

Everybody’s keen. Everybody schemes and everybody squeams.

And those in between.

Have nowhere serene.

Where they can be queen.

Or king if that’s the thing.

And if it is then Ping!

Give back the ring.

And git back in line to go agin’.

 

Thank you, friend.

Barry out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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