The smiles in their eyes are thirsts to some soul
While they tour the world, the world questions whole:
Must the world live people who live in it?
What’s the art in coloured riot paint, paint?
Life, don’t feed us with the crumbs from the rich
man’s table; pigeons pecks bread not the reach.
We’re not the nature fox or tweeting birds;
We’re Echoes of a dumb room of bluebirds.
We’re the trump trumpets, trump trumpets are we,
Your word is a tortoise; fools the sage’s glee,
A doss gross loss are you, your words failed us;
Killing is simply simple than the buss.
Brilliance is too childish so teach our eyes;
The prints are sages wrestl’ng our dubious eyes,
They’re gentle mute radios, as it does speak…
but we’ve been killed, killed, killed, rekilled at peak.
We’ve been Mute Scholars, don’t come to peace me!
They’re creator of words, words created to be;
The words of peace are sour, I hear hisses,
‘Cause I love the rude peace of knott’ng pieces.
“words from the innocent mind”