I left my shackled chains a while.
You should have been the final mile.

The race back home is always hard, they say,
the bard, his price to pay,
the prince, the hoarder of his words,
the little spider as he scurs,
is worthless not but for the verse
that gives that prince some sweet release.

And all that tangled, light brown hair
makes all the sweet girls unaware.

I opened up the attic but I didn't have much rope to lend
myself; my friend - it never ends,
until it finally does.
So if blood is the coil
connecting our sickness
I really hope all this fiction will fix this.

Fit me in figments;
your imagination pours
like that sweet, little fountain they have near our store.

One gets what one wants
until they want more.
The entrance is empty and the guards left the floor.

I've found an an exit,
but not a door.

Good stuff, as always.

I've always thoroughly enjoyed your wordplay, always runs along so smooth.

How's s* been, friend?

Dig it.. Colin.

like,like,like
Colin
there are so many great lines in this piece but the first two are the best for me.

to live inside that head of yours, it has to be amazing to write all this weirdness, but more of an intricate absurdity, not sure where it takes you, as long as it's somewhere, you never try to make it anything either and that's the cool part :)

Seems there is always more...

Excellent write.....timeless read on many levels.