Time is just a Place that moves around a bit, Says Gran’ mather who’is oft’ unseen, a green and sullen sheen on the orbs inside her gleams an eidolon of mists and dreams
There’s something rather cryptic in the shape of her shadow and sometimes you can see right through her, behold the mystic auras of her antiquated gowns
her shoes are submarines the color blue.
Behold her lamp like eyes and her spectacles for miles
that cast kaleidoscopic prismic patterns on the tiles.
‘Forward’s just a backwards way to get somewhere you hate’,
says Gran’mather who rarely says a thing when she’s up late.
It’s supernaturalistc in the way that she moves, I swear she seems to float on by
behold the state of rapture in everything alive every time she goes outside.
Behold her flowing gowns and her antiquated vials that cast kaleidoscopic prismic patterns on the tiles, her notable forays in the spirit world are praised but her cats are always wondering why their dinner’s late.

Her crystals all—they shine inside just like you often do.
Her shower smells an awful lot just like folk singers do.
A derpy sort of sofa, a feeble hook for coats, a place where you could sit down and maybe have a cup of tea or read, and sometimes in the kitchen there are cookies of a coconut nature.
Coconut cookies. In the kitchen by the knives.

Time is just a Place that moves around a bit, Says Gran’mather who’is often in an eidelon of mists. Behold her flowing gowns, her antiquated vials, the fractals of kaleidoscopic patterns on the tiles. The rows of flowing beads, her shoes like submarines, her transcedental creeds above her stoic figurines.

It’s ever hypnotizing all the fat clouds smoke
she blows in perfect rings when she tokes
A Thing is just a You when you’re not being quite yourself,
says Gran’mather once sixty shades of elf
Behold her lamp like eyes and her spectacles for miles
that cast kaleidoscopic prismic patterns on the tiles.
her notable forays in the spirit world are praised
but her cats are always wondering why their dinner’s late.