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iamdaimo
iamdaimo
Denmark Hill
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THE RED DIGITAL CLOCK REMINDS ME I AM at 21,112 feet, a palindrome at 6.06 in the morning, drifting from sleep to wake, back to dreams of reality. The man in my dreams. The man of my dreams. Somewhere over the rainbow, crows scream ****** at each other and the world turns. Men at work. 6:16 says the flashing clock, flashing to remind me, flashing to forget. The man in my dreams The man of my dreams. Pilots fly me onwards to a knowing destination, a truly murky crystal of logic and stupidity. The Chelsea hotel reminds me that love is not dead, that it lives on in the hearts of the workers of song, at least for those of them left. Mountains of things, rings, wedding bells chime and time, time slowly marches by, races, paces, one way streets. Time. Castles the colour of ink, landscapes of pink mountains. Snap back to reality. The sun kisses the distant horizon, as planes tear holes in the sky below and the old women weep for the days that will never shine again. But the children laugh for the days that are yet to be born, the days of promise and peace, war and understanding. A new era? A new beginning? A twist in time to take us to where it all began and the beautiful moon watches raucously from above, smiling on his children, sending kisses to his cheating lover, who still wrestles with the horizon. Colour floods. Grey, grey, grey. A dulux of colour. Man made. Your body searches for me. My mind wanders to other things. The heat of your stare envelopes every pore of my being and I freeze, immersed in a mountain stream, drenched in the sweat of love. Doors open, archways scream and silence is our only food. And yet reality still twists you from me. The man of my dreams. The man in my dreams. Crows cry and children sing. Happy nightmares, wearing thin.
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Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
iamdaimo
Remind Me?
THE RED DIGITAL CLOCK REMINDS ME I AM at 21,112 feet, a palindrome at 6.06 in the morning, drifting from sleep to wake, back to dreams of reality. The man in my dreams. The man of my dreams. Somewhere over the rainbow, crows scream ****** at each other and the world turns. Men at work. 6:16 says the flashing clock, flashing to remind me, flashing to forget. The man in my dreams The man of my dreams. Pilots fly me onwards to a knowing destination, a truly murky crystal of logic and stupidity. The Chelsea hotel reminds me that love is not dead, that it lives on in the hearts of the workers of song, at least for those of them left. Mountains of things, rings, wedding bells chime and time, time slowly marches by, races, paces, one way streets. Time. Castles the colour of ink, landscapes of pink mountains. Snap back to reality. The sun kisses the distant horizon, as planes tear holes in the sky below and the old women weep for the days that will never shine again. But the children laugh for the days that are yet to be born, the days of promise and peace, war and understanding. A new era? A new beginning? A twist in time to take us to where it all began and the beautiful moon watches raucously from above, smiling on his children, sending kisses to his cheating lover, who still wrestles with the horizon. Colour floods. Grey, grey, grey. A dulux of colour. Man made. Your body searches for me. My mind wanders to other things. The heat of your stare envelopes every pore of my being and I freeze, immersed in a mountain stream, drenched in the sweat of love. Doors open, archways scream and silence is our only food. And yet reality still twists you from me. The man of my dreams. The man in my dreams. Crows cry and children sing. Happy nightmares, wearing thin.
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