Florida Church Predicts Art Gallery Apocalypse
While Yellowstone geysers spew signs of the times,
as a doomsday clock reveals how long the day will last,
I am bathed in blue broad daylight that speaks of Oz.
Do my parents even know that I’ve run away to Saturn?
“Come in we’re open,” said the Ludacris Limbo
and I walked through the 20/20 hindsight.
Nine minutes to tell the secret to save the world,
I’m knocked out of orbit by the questions,
on my personal ghost plane, “not all who wander are lost.”
Two minutes to Armageddon and I’m frozen in a polar vortex,
are we more than just a name, does it run in our DNA,
or are we forever stuck gambling at this cracked crosswalk?
Have we wasted the perfect extract of Vegas vanilla dreams?
Is this the leftovers of a milkman retiring to embezzled elevators?
Has the universe issued a call back to fishing for ducks?
I sure hope so, I miss the taste of ugly.
The Reserve Record 