Stuart Thomas
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Mangled, wrangling, tangled in your conscious.

Machine mangling intricate thoughts behind the retina,

The kings pieces stuttering

Dangling heads are a replica, of times gone by and of mass hysteria

Rooks are shook by the cement of their exterior,

Harolds neighbours,

bishops fables,

Turning pieces,

Spinning tables,

Wheels of deceit in motion,

colour of a scene by the ocean,

Painted mystery,

Distinctive history,

Extinguish hollow victories, for they are only made up words from our imaginary concept "dictionary"

Conjure thoughts of lines and sink yourself into pitter patter pre dream slumber.

Eye opening excursions indeed make you smarter but with intelligence comes depth perception or lack of.

Flick back pages of white and black, click clack rages the hurtful fact,

This matrix was designed with Trojan horses, bricks of earth sold back to us for inhumane causes.

relax, forget, gaze away the benign waves

of an inclusivity you will never find. Subtract the fact you think you are something of great existence, your being here is the response to gravitational resistance.

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