Even on the most sunniest of days
the points of view
were so clouded
with deep seated emotions
it was impossible
to see the mountain
path that lead the way
out of the jungle
Everybody was blind rage running
like Chicken Little
waiting for the sky to fall
I had just returned home
from whale hunting on Lake Superior
where I caught nothing but
small egos of delusion
that sucked the wind
out of my tiny sails
Yet all my little thoughts were
still baited with the same futile ambition
that had been blown wide open by the bumbling clouds of foggy clowns
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