Stoke me up
Rip me down
Place me over
A heated crown
Fold the ice
Into a spear
Shoot it off
Right to the moon!
My mountain has been falling down,
Leaving holes the size of crowns.
I look to learn the makers name,
But eyes, unblinking, stare through the rain.
Could this new path design the way,
A thousand years been left unpaved.
I cry with every brick to fall,
Towards my future, the Grand Ball.
In my distance I feel no pain,
I shudder lost on through the rain
Amidst clear guidelines and diplomats;
Hidden secrets swept under mat.
Up and up and up my gaze
Fights through the foggy haze,
For as my mountain falls apart
Answers dart from end to start.
Clearly, says I, to my maker, my God,
What has become, why is there blood?
Why are my knees no longer strong?
What force has left my music gone?
Designed and betrayed
The dandelion reaches proud.
An arc culminating in a golden crown;
Surrounded by disciples.
So fresh, so close to sour
Yet so understandably healthy
In this alternate way of living.
To be flesh, then wither away.
Flounder into delicate wind swaps
Floating on forth, forever more.
Mimic my every cry
As I let you whistle low
I’m ready for the hunger
I’m ready for the feast
Left alone at the crossroad
Pack all filled with air
A dollar too much down
Dusty register’s golden crown
Felt hard in my left
Checked the other one again
Heard my freight-train-a-coming
Lookin the other way now
Long road comin hard
Off to another day
Felt the executioners tail
Felt the grip to mother-me
Ramblin rose staring at me
My eyes gone, going back understood
Creeking sleep covering me
Lurching stops frightening me
My bag and me settling in
Easy train rumbling on
Lost my voice miles ago
Keeping my whistle down low
It wasn’t too long ago that I
Wandering through fields waist high
Came upon one friendly blade of grass
That spoke to me in old English decree
Forsooth it is thy jolly Lombard
Erect in flight of recent folly
That doth not retire grand ambition
That doth not spare no damsel plight
Amongst thy gallows of conquered fate
Whence settling down amongst thou bromus
He contemplates his recent fight
And not one hour should pass thy penance
When thou stumblt upon a gift that gave
So lovely displayed be suit noble court
Of kindly and jolly King Edward the IV.
And in this gift so deep a sentiment
Earl Warwick, himself! ere be knelt
The gift to seekers shall be found
Not in man’s work but in mankind
Thou gift is also found upon
Thy brow of revelations crown
And to this joy that I’d now found
While wandering to and then to fro
Reciting, by name, the grass that grew
Here I would learn to love anew