Following:
such small handsHave you ever been deceased?
Or do you quickly fall to the knees?
Time’s value will soon fade out
rusted fortunes give rise to doubts
even the miraclemen won’t desire to wake
for the streets are filled with breeders of hate
I wonder if they can feel the sunny days?
And many moons from now, all the repairmen shall weep
their lack of work, keeping them in bed
the sun will switch shades entirely to red
there is but two circles of hope in the sky
And I’d rather consider them friends of mine…
i could just hand you the bottle
and none of the worries will be bothered
and when the hobo wears his Sunday clothes
we’ll all be ready to hear his story’s unfold
and his lucky cards, they’ll all turn up
coming from all men, will their praises erupt
singing shame, in the prettiest ways
will he always remember these lucky days?
does he know one day the clocks will turn sour?
and his mind’s only leader, will begin to speak,
“Never look to the hours!”
or condemn the mind to blindly seek
who’ll wait around, for some fifteen years
wondering why it’s still stranded here
and the blood thins in the cold
nothing is rehearsed
even his sails are cursed
for they refuse to even unfold
and that double-eared speaker,
sat us down, and planted a seed
and convinced him to have his story’s retold
Well, he mockingly agreed…
for all of them are far too old.
To the judges who’ve strained:
(and worked so hard)
I commend and embrace you,
but don’t you ever stray too far
Have you felt the weight of any dark?
or learned to embrace anyones heart?
don’t listen to all men’s remarks
I’ve even been spun back to the start
those lonely gypsies that seem to skip Mondays
they never miss the sun’s rays
(i don’t either)
Red?
off the whispering coast of st. augustine
i silently met with my friend the sand
blanketed with blue to not be seen
salt hugging onto my hands
we’ve come to terms, so he offered me tea
i casually declined for my trust is thin
only the hillsides will I call my friends
choirs of voices, singing in leaves
all flowing the most beautiful harmonies
I’ve never noticed, not till the surgury
opened my other eyes, offering me
unheard of colours, pushed by feeling
my doctor asked, “will you be staying long?”
“I’d hoped to stay forever, is that so wrong?”
he rolled his eyes, and fell asleep
collapsing on the floor beneath me
Away I ran, with clothes in hand
fleeing through the window:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
shall then, we remain free?
living by our conjured decrees?
tell me, tell me, oh tell me
said the man to the chief
who shot his eyes halfway up
and dribbled into an empty cup
Does the moon not pull the seas?
he smiled as he fell to his knee’s
but me, I’ve heard these tales before
and breathed this uneasy breeze
i then saw the roof collapse
and the sky came crashing in
all the land was pulled apart
and so the time of sea’s begins
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
— Ernest Hemingway
Oh the trails we sing!
how they never cease to ring,
and the mirrors tell tailes;
yet hardly anyone cares
tell me, how can i see
to the very tops of the tree’s
if i could just find the right stream
flowing a steady of red wine
well i’d ask her to drown me.
carry me away, so softly
out of reach, from even the longest limbs
who try to save me, so gracefully
but I shall say to thee!
“Please! Let me be!
Let me float away, and finally see,
what it means to have eternity!”
If sand floated through space;
it would have no where to wash up,
and no shorelines to taste
It would drift for years upon years,
until it reached some system’s field
and right before it burned into tears
I wonder how it would feel.
