The turning of an age, well, you nearly lost yourself
with a beautiful passing of an era.
I’m so glad I know you;
you've been beside me through it all.
And now it's nearly milk and honey,
all just to feel something (anything)
again.
Said about your deepest shades now;
how there's nothing more to unwrap.
It's true; we've done so much growing up.
Together like tall oak trees.
Compressed bodies knocking shivers down both our spines.
Just kids.
You weren't neutral when you lost your head.
We fell more than twice in the smoke.
‘Cause it was owed,
I guess.
Just to take back a chunk of soul-
left home to fly for a while.
It's like
a whirlwind on the boarder of understanding.
Naked flesh, all the good saliva.
I craved it. I would have screamed for it.
Innocent bridges crossed to settle on lust.
So you're right- it always had to happen.
Moving. Pulsing. Tangled compression of skinonskins.
What we titled,
heroically,
as Life.
When weighing the difference;
the good and the bad,
well something in my system
flew away
to a gentle lullaby of disappointment.
All drilled in from other humans
Those that could scar and push the throbbing heart into mud
and drown the mind until it's fog.
Buried treasure, raw steak, bubblegum, swollen stiff and melting.
Crazy eyes and soothing words.
Music for the soul and fingertips that play along.
Adrenaline that tasted like nostalgia.
Cherry flesh, a half gasp.
Sure as hell loved the Child's Mind Waltz;
thriving for the next footsteps
because we were just lost.
So eager to replace the word 'love' with' feel'.
The word 'cant' fell in place of 'wont'.
I should'a told you I came to agree with the weeping
of the Arizona stars.
The reasoning of life.
Who the sparks get thrown onto next.
I was too weak for the web of unreality
but sure- I’d spun it for myself.
It threw itself in my face to take it
and I did.
It turned to God surgery on the grass
and a floodlight on the brain.
(Not arrogance but fog).
I turned at the top of the road to find
I'd been left looking at you.
With my soul in my throat and frogs in my stomach.
Barefoot. Little dancer.
Before my maker.
Well simply and splintering my hand to write;
you were just paint on canvas the whole time.
Stuck in between the call of the Gods and a man
it's not quite beauty, but knowledge in my hands.
Like putty.
(Anytime).
To fly, to feel, to thrill.
Flew away again to poetic type covered in thorns,
Untamed and wild.
