You’re lost in the abyss
Of a body I never missed
A lingering taste
Of a song I never sang
Why hold on so long
To a handle left unrung
Crying at the wheel
Going nowhere fast
On a sunny Sunday
And breakfast coming at last.
I’m not Gothic, but I’m made for the edge
I sharpen my pencils with one long steel blade
And whisper in darkness to ghosts running around.
There’s still time for me to walk away,
A path where shrunken skulls remind me
Of voices necromancy.
I’m not here for anything but tea, kind Sir,
Help me bring silence
In this sea of raindrops dragging
For my pencils and warm tea.
Another day we wait as it rains
A day to refresh the sun
Our tents blow their fresh layer of spray
Upon our bending backs
And our boots slop through the mud
As we putter about what’s become familiarly ours
Yet our eyes cease not their yearn
For the forest upon field’s edge
A forever shifting natural escape
Winding its way through this new season
As our tired hands find their way
Along new lines of worn wood
Waiting for its new home.
To learn more constellations
To sail the astronomical seas
To divine with angles found
In unearthly sights unseen
For as I look up to the stars
While frogs make music yonder
And a fire cackles behind my back
To warm my dreaming body
I find a way to waltz around
From Perseus to Orion
And maybe Cassiopeia will
Dance the night away with me.