Mona Lisa’s Got Nothing On Her


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Skin reflecting sin
Where do I begin?
Even her hair’s so fair
With glasses on
She becomes a song
The epitome of wildfire flair

She makes a background smile
Never ever moving all the while
Making a flash soft as fur
As Winter becomes Spring
The past becomes a thing
Because Mona Lisa’s got nothing on her

Mesmerizing forever
A creation all too clever
Statuesque causing commotion
From where did this soul come
When she’s been right there, under our thumb?
Giving rise to self-promotion

The heavens make it clear
Her beauty brings a tear
Whereas envy can’t concur
The past found its muse
Repeating it just to confuse
Because Mona Lisa’s got nothing on her

Is This Not The Most Fascinating Life Line In The World?


What is going on with this palm?

Who has ever seen a heart-line and life-line joined together like this?

What does it all mean, seriously? Many say that “Life is what You make it.” Seriously?! Do we really have control over our own destinies? I know this seems like just a series of questions. But, can anyone tell anything about this individual just from a palm reading? How fascinating to have a palm that distinguishes You from everyone else.

Maybe Guinness should take a look at what could be “The Most Extraordinary Hand In The World.”

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(Casket) Ready


Adieus bidded

Pictures painted

Two hours on this stage

Still performing

Until

no makeup is needed

Even answering to Freddy

lets you know you

are funeral ready

At any time

In any place

You are

Because you have made amends

 

How can there be sorrow

when yesterday

they all looked forward to

a better tomorrow

Sometimes they never knew

you were bidding adieu

Then again

Neither did you

 Those fond memories

Oh how

they linger on

 

The Fortune of Tellers


There is a cut inside my hand

that separates

Life from Reality

A true sense of

where I am now

from where I want to be

Others claim to be able

to read me

And I go along with

the lie

Should I not nod

then egg smears violently

Adhere to rhetoric

I mimic what they tell

Be it I who sees the fine line

inside my head

And provoke my large hands

to grab hold of it all

Releasing to only increase

Again

The story flows

As only spirit knows

May the backs of my hands

stay as clean