Old things for new
Old things for new
Cried a poor peddler
through a high province of Peru
He thought of the story
of the rain that got in
It filled the world up
to wash away sin
It was but an ark
that had saved not the least
of all that were chosen
from man and the beasts
And how had that mattered
in the Andes of Peru?
Long after the water
could reach Machu Picchu

Cradled in the arms
of Glenda herself
I could sleep
Sleep like I may never wake
or want to
for the rest is needful
and the dreams devine
I could bathe in the comfort
of clover and poppies
at the foot of Emerald City
waiting to hear the good witch tell me
“Good night sweet prince”

May we one day be toasting
the bright, morning sun
with the blessed chalice
full of nectarine dew
And if our quest
should test our resolve
raise a cup in its place
when the day is through

I err,
therefore I am

I can see the world
through a murky lens
clouded by storms
of my making
And if I am cursing
that which I can’t see
then, it’s only myself
I’m forsaking

Here lately the Sandman mocks me
with his calls to sleep that are nothing more than brutal sarcasm
To report to my bed at night
is the highest level of futility
Even the sheep are laughing
I’m here all week

Soft pink rose petals
touched his lips that day
and burned through his body
like the sun through the wings
of Icarus
For he had reached for ecstasy
and cared not for consequence
It was a good day to die