I’ve been here before
This local hole
This traffic pattern
This left over dismal
Pit of destruction
Perhaps it’s maybe not that bad
Perhaps it’s maybe a lost cause
I’ve pulled on this string
Left it alone and desolate
Barren in it’s future
without hope and lost
Callused and abused
Perhaps it’s its design
Perhaps it’s just counseling
I’ve calmed down these gates
Without warning I’ve left
The hope has lasted again
I’ll wake tomorrow and see
That the work is finished
How much has been said about what we do find
Deep beneath the solid layers of pine
We rake and we groom, shovel and we dig
Perhaps it’s all in the shape of our rig
The ending is the beginning is the same in the rain
The trollys will continue, in circles hardly vain
Then here, with the lot of it, we sit and we pout
Trying to figure out the riddles of our gout
Even with the long lines, and bustling desires
Have we ever found a whistle blown not by a squire?
So then we do perfect that which we’ve had all along
The deepest and darkest and lightest of songs
It’s one and the the same
Simply in vain
Beige petticoat, beige umbrella
Sandy leather briefcase
Few drops of rain
That litter the skin
Cell in the other
Balanced with a coffee
To go in a cup
A man in a rush
Push, not pull
And into the day
I sit here
This is his way
Amongst these cobblestones and brick walls
Our fathers in a different suit roamed
They sang clearly and loudly about
What we were to become; an industrial lot
But then, just as the sun that has risen
The fallout has taken back what we once knew
Left us senseless, racked with new disease
One which has filled up many new holes
Maybe there was foresight
Clouds parted and the voices were heard
Perhaps it was neither ethereal or hard
Just then, as it is now
Soloists have a hard time understanding the meaning of the unity
The connection with others that amplifies the experience
Perhaps it’s also an ego thing: uninterupted, in command
Or maybe it was a result of a childhood
No parents to love by, no siblings to care for
But soloists also understand a much deeper commitment to the cause
A rooted desire to conquer the tasks and ignore/conuquer all obstacles
That run headlong into the path of resistance
Perhaps it’s nothing of the sort, just mere coincidence that
Strong minded individuals had no support structure
For their childhood fantasies and nightmares
In the end, it is neither the soloist nor the socialist
Who stands up tall at the end of the match
It is neither the mother nor the father who take on the blame
Or the brother or the sister who have left you out of the game
It is the soloist who must take on the blame
Who must reach deep inside and answer only to themselves
Questions on my mind
Make the game worth
The questions on my mind
And the questions on my mind
Prove the answer to the riddle
Of questions on my mind
Relate to the soloist who has gone ahead and led the way
That there was a mixup in the game plan, that the troupes have all turned
Away from the diamonds, away from the booty,
More towards the inspiration, rallied against the ugly mascot
They have turned down the flags, and silenced the horns
Ignited the fires and paraded far away
Eyes open, I wander the streets looking for subtle differences
They protrude like well worn corners, now slightly knobby
I can almost feel it in these rows that were around before industry
It’s like a pleasant mist that spreads over my countenance
It’s painful to realize that there are so many who ignore this fleeting desire
This lifeline that encourages growth like the mid summers morning
Who has been born that cannot hear this angels voice?
Who can feel alive without touching the angels hair?
Deep morning frost that thickens ones footsteps
Fall into the pale morning air that frees my mind
I sit still, very still in fact
Enough so, that the trees become the root of my soul
It is in this little path that the faces take shape
The members of this society begin to hold down sharp edges
Fully aware of the powers they wield
Perhaps the ending will be a memorable one
Remember the times when we laughed out as kids?
The sweet songs would hold us, and spin us around
Our toes that tucked under the sand
The sun that beat down as we washed out the day
On our backs in the sun kissed hay
Remember the movies we would catch Friday nights?
We’d close our eyes as we ignored the previews
Annoyed at being shown the future holds more
Anxious for the feature that held the score
We’d hold hands and relax, just as we always did
Remember the music we’d look for and find?
Days spent searching for that perfect line
We’d spend hours in that old music store
Waiting for the cheap deals we knew we could score
You’d look up with excited eyes and we’d both smile
Do you remember dear, where our time has gone?
Where the days have turned to years
And our ways have turned to patterns
Tomorrow lets do something new, unprecedented
Let’s make the story longer, let’s laugh again
There will be no more when the sands of time drop their last kernel into the forbearing sea of thought
Amongst the gallows only the riddled few remain at their wits and cry out for more against the heat
Soon, too, shall man kind seek out the blissful revenge of what has eluded their existence
With bombs and conquerors and their unrelenting performance of celebrated efforts
The last drop shall remain frozen in the air like the memories of y’or
Without much hope for the removal of sinful elegance captured in the mind of the youth
Who strive for their lovers without concepts of legacy, without understanding of respect
But who knocks there, if not the newest hero of the day, with flashing armor and manicured demeanor
I shall present this final hour like the news of a landing, or the disappearance of a breed
And all those around shall mourn like a lover, lost with their thoughts and passive listlessness
And I shall sigh with eternal sadness that was thought to have died long ago; persevered none-the-less
Like them in their time and forgetful of mind, one kernel shall remain grasping at hope and sustain
The listful waves roll smooth here now
As the cold seeks out the exposed arms
The wind, it reminds us of the time of year
To which we submit, recursively forever more
We wonder aloud of what shall become of us
Two birds that dare to dream together
A callused palm that rest a while
A sore leg that cries a little
With airplanes and tunnels awaiting fate
The dungeons of space will cry their state
And turnpikes will collect their due toll
We both shall gain together, so much more
With night skies they wake
With cold nights they shake
The morning dew from beneath their brow
A land, begone, ones future riddle
Heavens fall upon the grounds I walk in the darkening hour
To early for goblins, to late for gods
The sinful presence of something ethereal
Swallows up my veins in a cool tranquil
And listlessly I walk forth into the night
Waiting for the bright street light
To take control of the mood and awake this state
I cross my arms and beg no mercy
But in the path of mourning that I resist
There is a tiny ember that floats aglow
And I, who believes, ponder and stare
What could it be that floats through my hair
At first it seems like an answer to the past
But then it cries the way I’ve forgotten about
Resting in my hands the time tolls on
The angels arms they soon grow strong