Beneath the bright unearthly strobe, here comes ET, and he’s got a probe. He hasn’t come to make war. Hasn’t come to kill or invade us. He hasn’t come to make peace. Hasn’t come to help or to aid us. The reason he’s near seems perfectly clear. He’s searching for life on Uranus.
They cried, “You’re covered with scars!”
“You poor pitiful thing!”
“What heartache, and misery,
the memories must bring.”
The butterfly his opus writes,
on breezes passing by.
Yet as he writes he does forget,
the how, the when, and why.
They were taught what to think,
and thought what was told.
That the ice was quite hot,
and the fire was quite cold.
There was a time. Ago. Embraced. When a woodland walk, brought a state of grace
Her name was Jenny Pickles, and when life was less intense, she’d share her peena budda jwelly samich
I’d rather be upon the hillside, as the night mist rolls away, and watch the sky run into scarlet
Off to the museum of art we go, with she in front, and me in tow. Absorb some culture
Then in the night, the lonely night, the moon she comes, the moon she calls, and then like silvered teardrops
Where the Willawikki flows, the lolo swim, and the gumgum grows, along the banks