Sight of Solomon

He hates speeches.
He is big and broad-shouldered and has a beard. He is warm.
He doesn't believe in the color blue.

He forgets to cry and he is confident and inspired.
Peaches, vanilla, strawberries and sun.
He hates speeches.

He leaves himself when he sings.
He works hard as he propels his life smoothly, upwards.
Magnificent.
He is beautiful.

He feels beautiful.
He sometimes hates.
He seems blunt and may
come up as serious
but he is a funny man and
isn't he a dreamer like
every
body else.
He is compelled to love.
He is misunderstood.
So he travels.

He is a dreamer, counteracted, I say he is
more than one can ever get to see.

I close my eyes and I see orange and warm and yellow.
I taste a sunset and the wind smiles all over.

The sounds are distant beauty yet to soar and I only write because I hate speeches too.

Lactose

I am interested in seeing how this one comes up.
Be it that flunks or thrives and well oh man are you even reading. Are you thick-minded or have you felt beautiful. If both then he is to rain all over you. Lactose, from the shell.

I am counting the days through lava.
Sunk in sand I dropped the pilot never carefuly though aiming low.
You can't. That triggers me as the good boy and I can't be otherwise.
Oh, the good actions that come to nothing. Come to nothing.
Come, then, come. I am more than lactose. More wood to digest, I would guess.