An art it is perhaps–
What's binding us together
What's making our lives
And acting even in how we die
We in fact, are all a set
Of all the words echoing
In the conscience caves
Of our silly little heads
What's binding us together
What's making our lives
And acting even in how we die
We in fact, are all a set
Of all the words echoing
In the conscience caves
Of our silly little heads
As spokesperson of words
We seldom rant with sincerity
While they who art with poesy
Stand most articulate
Even in ridiculousness
For the way this world revolves
Isn't sideways or circular
But in our way with words
We seldom rant with sincerity
While they who art with poesy
Stand most articulate
Even in ridiculousness
For the way this world revolves
Isn't sideways or circular
But in our way with words
-K.G.
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