a still life
the bad place shuffles
what to write
of what spirits
these are the questions to which i've no answers.
i called it on myself i s'pose
nothing but impediment.
shaking hands we call it a day
the shrapnel of daily life
right between your eyes -- not yours, mine
and now we're going home
if they're to be believed.
that's only one way to simplify my soul
but the grace period ends tomorrow.
now whirring through the air, i see colors
in my head,
at the bottom
now picking up the leaves - what else?
Sister Rosetta was right about the music up above my head
but there's trouble too
We weren't always in this Parisian flat,
Never is a long time but not as long as the years passed by
so we cleaned up
on a rainy sunday, headed for church
but they wouldnt let us in
so we heaaded back homeward
it's easier that way
walking along, without a sound
but for the doves, the sparrows, the jays, the mockingbirds
rejoicing at the rightness of the day.
there is no one here out to see or hear
shredding of the souls
if there are many of us how many souls do we have?
maybe we should keep only a few
buthow to choose?
Still the trees shake as the herons land
sparrows tremble in their song as hawks hover above
waiting for currents to carry them in
But words like these are only experimental
like the rest of us.
You may as well dance if you got 'em
cause there's no answers coming this way anytime soon.
7 hours ago