The Prophet Obblonge - Verencia

Sometimes I think people take reality for granted
Her voice seemed tiny amongst the trees, mossy and ancient

You mean, an anchoring point that is a welcome home
When the imaginal realms become tiresome
And one desires the curlicues of bedposts to become stable again

His words remained somehow chest-level as opposed to hers
That had taken off towards the green and gold canopy
Her partner in conversation was out of her line of sight
Nestled in the hollow of roots somewhere adjacent

Curly queues and bedposts
Murmuring under breath
You know, I'm still trying to decide if you're a dangerous weirdo or an interesting eccentric
Sounds proprietary
I'd better stay out of it

Knapsack on shrouded ground, flap open
Cork-stoppered glass
Silicone, hand poured
Her nimble fingers portioned, placed, mixed

Faintest of smiles
Perfume from memory ghosts nostrils
Closing the circle, the ritual began

Written by:
Michael Mackenzie

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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