He takes his brain out every night
And puts it in a bucket,
Each yellow ochre coloured cell
Emits a foul and fetid smell and starts to pound
Then starts to swell,
Rising slowly
They’re locked by night and locked by day
Each thought in every cell,
But each one can be clearly seen
With viscous matter in between, visible threading
Patterned, mean,
Rising slowly
He finds the lock and turns the key
His tendencies concealed,
His stares are made of wooden looks.
Logic soaking; bubbles rising; instinct reigns sublime,
His intellect,
Rising slowly
Please share the story on Facebook, or donate to support our efforts!
.jpg)
