Rhyming Sucks.

A bag of bones,

And red astral stones.

Shading misfortunate clones.

Drowning beneath cloudless drones.

And can I breathe here?

Amongst the seasoned souls,

Or should I stay here?

And recover my own petrolled homes?

Flooding our freedom with washed up whales,

Cracking and crunching bellowed tails.

Stars full of moons and clouds full of light.

Emancipating yet we’re starting a endless fight.

I’m hungry and fading.

But the pain elsewhere needs changing.

You’re complaining and shaking…

I’ll leave you to carry your bag of bones…