A river passes by
saturating the dry
red earth below.

Tunnels are saved,
caves are lost.
Who let you in?

A swamp above,
a basin of love,
a sound forgotten.

It floods the core,
It melts the rock,
a lie revealed.

Filling my mind filled thick like a sauna,
marinated with wine plenty in the cellar,
oil on canvas dried brush thick in yellow;
it's me who grows this time.

Pollinated hives dress the wind with nectar,
one soothing cry calms the silence forever,
coins jingle by in the cup of a beggar;
it's me who grows this time.

The way I see
I'm arid mars,
and down on me
your Venus flows,

and I can feel
scary and new,
and I can feel
you all around,

and eventually
you will be,
a part of me
and we'll both turn,

into something free
together now,
just you and me
so much to show.

Let me just lay down
foundation.
This is where we'll stay
  every night.
Our gaze is sky bound
to the sun.
The only star gaze
 we'll follow.

Suffering is all we've ever known
and all we'll ever know is suffering.

As we cook under
this heat,
our rotten husks turn
to meat,
and we'll just take a
seat,
in our little house
of peat.

In the valley of the hermit,

an old woman lives alone

clutching onto a stone.

She knew time when she saw it.



She lived on top of a tower,

a storm brewing up above.

Still she didn't lose sight of

the rocks' hands from turning over.



One day a man came to her door,

showed her the wheel on his wrist.

"Time is something you can't resist!

this tower's not safe anymore."



The woman chose not to listen.

And when the lightning finally struck,

she ran completely out of luck

and time was something she was missing.

A grey horizon.
A gentle breeze.
A light rain.

You have the most beautiful blue eyes, she said.
An unsettling silence took hold.

A great wave crashes into land,
sweeps away at valleys and hills,
and it creeps inland into towns;
it drowns the world;
only I remain dry,
as I look at the brittle tops of the trees
with my tired eyes.

From my
throne of leaves
I wade through
the destruction,

A single tree on a hill survives,
through my wet, sluggish clothes, I struggle on,    
wrestling the current,
closer to the tree;
but it was just a tree.