I count all my hair, stinging with electricity, ozone on my sleeve. A peat bog with water waist deep, moss on down the halls. Bouncing a voice long gone, “How do we breathe?” Escaping as we speak. Beautiful words confine me, a misery of mystery. Restless at the seams. A prison so lost friends won’t find me. How does this compare? Another kind of exposure.
When the rising of the morning wakes you,
and the catching of your breath takes you
to the far and the fetched;
through those places
let your heart pass
and your head wander.
In this way, memories made sweet
shape all the fonder.
Aimless through the black and white, among the grainy tops of midnight. Wander through clear cut lines of staunch lit dreams and windless vines. Crawl and stretch toward open whites, blue or hazel of open eyes. Crossing through emboldened text. Reap and sow tears of crying minds. Black and white, back and forth; whose hope is it to read the signs? Among the fields stemming dreams of height, while as to day, they fall to night. Within words so far away only disbelief will fill my fright. Harvested here by those astray, the tree of wisdom, from leaves that fell away.
Where wild ones play. In a jungle of laughing and longing. Built over time on overgrown mossy ground. Filled with a soundtrack of cackles in the dark. Strange and unrecognizable to them. Though very much alone. Sounds to which they've kissed goodbye all night long. Until trees fall and flowers wilt. All noise fades. A cold, bare apartment called home. Never to see each other again. So it feels. Something she would call dramatic. To say the least. Sometimes the most better left unsaid.
A rose in the garden grows ever sweeter. Lovely white petals soften a thorny demeanor. Though twinkling between twilights its pale beauty casts gloom; a baneful silk shadow by light of the moon. Safe in the small hours, but deadly at dawn: the buds draw in, the thorns begin to yawn. If stung in the light there's no time to feel sick. The petals glow red as blood from the prick. Forget your family, your life, and your friends. Off to a new garden you roam to make amends. To his mistress, the moon, the rose does take. Another stranger - a sacrifice - for his mistake. You won't wonder or think. Your mind has gone. As you lie and wait for the last light has shone. When daylight has faded; now covered in dirt. You twist and tangle as stems with white flowers, from your skin, begin to spurt.
soon you'll see where lovers dreamed dust in the air smell of the free dreamers call home come back to me from last light gleamed come back to me
My fears do I confess? Your tears do I let drown. Drops within a sea. Times I let you down.
Who is she and where? His Clementine whispering in his ear. Anytime there's no one near. Who picks flowers for herself, lighting candles for the night. He turns to see her pretty face. Either she is quick to react or, in reality, has no place.
Either I stood in your shadow or waited in your shade. A fly on the wall buzzing about things to be made. Now I see clearly with a thousand little eyes. Please leave these words, how little you keep inside.
"For once it was nice: shedding myself of the most boring aspects of my life. Which were, realistically, the most exciting parts in the lives of others... Before, I placed all my perception of beauty into wonder, into imagining great features in great lands, great feats by great hands. Now I know, it is not those who wander that are lost, but those who wonder endlessly of where they could go."