all the walls fall down

Time for a bop. And if you don't know what that means, you haven't read enough of my work yet. So, get to work. And, you should hear this with full instrumentation. Bellissime.

all the walls fall down

clothes do not make the man.
chosen roses smell the same as the ones left behind
and we find our common sense hangs suspense for two pence
like cheap plastic trinkets that we think no one can tell
from stone and metals like plastic petals in a pond
we are beyond this and that and like a cat wearing a hat,
we are still what we were before the masquerade.

words are made of air and thought
and their ultimate purpose is caught
in the nets of the cautious harvest
where the knowing hands test
the suppositions of our positions
the veracity of our superstitions
and the fitness of our provisions
we set aside to fill us inside
when then pride turns to snide
and we are left with what has died
and no way to bury the remains
as the memory stains and pains
and we find a formula that explains
the very nature of the nurture
of the present in the future
when we mock entropy to make pure
from a higher state of being
from a brighter light of seeing
from a tighter fight for meaning.

and all the walls fall down.


William F. FeVault. all rights reserved.