Requiem Pro Somnium

Yea, though a midsummer's day pass'd
this sort of fairytale with you
Happy to hang on any shred
lingering in watercolours
and still have the decency
to pick up after a subtle
pass and declination toward
an awkward already.

Desire to want what cannot be
taken, day or night or inbetween
Flames still lick the salt of
spinning days and days ago.
Belong to what, we do not know.
Go where, we do not know. But I
know that Woden's Day brings
Hope para que la sabe. Le saut du loupe
was the hopeful hour in cold
French mountains. The Irish cead me failte
when I am home.

To run and run and run and run and be Away.....
I was on my way. I'd swear on anything that
the safari was right there. I saw it. Lived it.
Even breathed it. But I would never steal it, as
much as the bodies scream out false bloods.
High desert mountains call out again, four
years dead from the tricycle tower.
A somnambulist's fantasy
acted out acros't keyboards a-flying.

Fingers

Mine, they've been cut.
I know They exist, for They feel.
And They type as I ask of Them.
And They run scales as I expect.
And They hold doors for strangers.
And pump gasoline into trucks.

My head, it is throbbing with
a pulse that beats softly with
each and every breath, and sharply
with each exertion as it ebbs
and my voice, it cannot sing.
Silenced.

Then two thousand found me interesting.
And hung on every festering wound
That could be published between clicks.
As dying and flowing as teenaged innocence
When Divorce hung softly from my tree,
waving a cheery 'ello' through green'd leaf.