River ashore

Floating upon the endless river; one ventures into the wild gaze of an endless atmosphere.
A child's running in circles; where to go, when there isn't an answer to the question that won't become mute towards ancient clouds of wisdom:
- One more for the road.
Whispers silently the old man
On an endless parade of freaky and absolute wisdom, the atmosphere's strange as a lost anag ram of words:
- Where to?
Asks the little child
- I don't know the tricky and risky ways of quiet slumber.
Whispers the sailor
A man in a trenchcoat does his job endlessly; he thinks on some quiet song that won't be silenced.
Lost buses appear out of nowhere; trying to catch a train, one falls into a devious trap.
The glass is filled with water and ice, it trembles into some vast dominion.
A baby's asleep from the quiet solitude of lost bricks; grass everywhere on nurtured beings without thoughts.
The turtle's an ancient wisdom of rattlesnakes on the desert, linking strange visions of a forgotten lore of past, present and future.
Echoes are still on the remains of logic; being bored forever on an empty space, the huge rabbit appears out of nowhere, being passed from time to time into secret oblivion.
The passages are what they seem to provide, sand's everywhere, the sea's a treasure to be filled into a current mix of oxygen on silent sounds that appear out of nowhere.
The mute noises are being put on a caressed ocean of tears, someone's lurking over windows that won't close, perception's long gone.
The eyes can't be the mirror of the soul, since the ancient tradition of lost particles on the air seems like a transition to other worlds of slumber.
The pillow's wide awake; when searching for the holy grail that won't become a simple task of putting words into phrases, words aren't merely words, they are worlds that seem to crash and collide into some empty rocks of void.
The paper's filled with inner spirit.
The seagulls are passing by, the wind's a curious gaze towards an academic voice of wonders that won't be spoiled.
Chairs are chanelling energy and moving along with current landscapes of joyfullness, the bread's filled with butter.
The strange cacophony of millions of stars that disappear into an empty phrase of treasures on a leafless paper of knowledge.
- Books and books, what for?
The fox continues to mutter endlessly
Searching for the river on the streets of ancient rocks, the air's soft, the rain appears from nowhere, the pen's becoming slave of the man.
- Enter into other ideas.
- Venture into the green.
- Carry on with your busyness.
Cries the little child to the old man.
Hunger and famine's a strange parallel of colours that aren't there, dressing the endless atmosphere of soft stairs that won't lead to nowhere, the little vermin tries to escape into another realm of being, into somewhere and everywhere.
Merely words that won't flee into worlds.
Black and yellow as a strange void of emptyness, hapyness comes and goes, the collision of stars, the world seems like simple cigarettes that won't be more than a tender and soft whisper on a tender smile.