Every time time i'm asked if it 's meant to be, noone stops to think that if is the falisy,
the image i'm asking, a question in passing, no meal to take time and space in mind,
that is chewing over a slow roast of enemy, and choke metaphore
that identify the similar styles and bigotry
of many a small man , who are so plentiful.
now i'm a lost, no identity or idea of what it's meant be,
friend ask me how plentiful the time and taste that you are dreaming of,
so now i anger at the slightest cause,
bite vile as if it's my poision,
the the solitude is sought now and and incedental
