Wonder through pores, I open at the close.
Tickling the toes of the three-faced ghost.
Feelings for a thing that wakes in a dream,
And begins to choke their friendliest host.
Funny how they are, carrots (in) front of nose.
Luring, training, killing Jesus in a toast.
Occipital strain through a slit in the seam,
Owns all in a flash, quite something to boast.
Gripping beyond real, a bag of rotten jokes.
Coulda swam harder, trying to reach the coast.
Coulda won some battles, (by) being hard or mean;
The war was lost on me, still did I gain the most?