a matter of scales

the matter of scales We, you and I, who don't believe in a rose scented heaven, painted by a five years old child who has a mother named Glady  Nor do we believe in that place where  stokers go, tired of an electrified world  I know of a man on X who is doing his best believing in a friendly God, that must be difficult for a man who wonders if he is a deity of wealth. If I go before you, I like to be a memory dwell there until it is time to go  and become the non-returnable As we sit on a bench that has a lone tree and swirling fog, we can talk about   the Savanna, when I was a lion and you  were a gracious giraffe called baby We can also reminiscence when we  were warthogs, lived in a hole with no hope of having a bath unless it rained so much that our cave flooded  We can also fry to nirvana, a place that is less colorful and has an echo of  wishes not fulfilled. Failing that, we can go to Iceland said to be the most peaceful place on earth by those who have not heard the rumble  of earthquakes The aber is the island has no trees if we should get bored and hang ourselves