I have a bone to pick with Fate.
Come here and tell me, girlie,
Do you think my mind is maturing late,
Or simply rotted early?

Whether wind speaks
In the minds of mad men,
Shall we ever know?
To be mad is to know, and
Knowing is no longer mad.
Therefore who are we to judge,
Smudge the fact
The sun can speak,
Warmth upon your cheek is simple,
Carve the shadows beneath your dimples.
Tell a tail of love so sweet,
Whether wind speaks to me
It seems it's so...
Long that I've been close to you,
Heard your voice, and I've come so close to blue...
Skies can make you smile
While endorphins, been forced in through snow white clouds
Can shroud your beauty,
I just don't know how.
I feel as if I'm floating, sinking
Deep beneath the sea it seems
I wonder where upon my dreams,
I'd understand this world,
Or am I mad to dream of dreams.

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?

Found on the beach this morning
by New Floridian tribesman
were sea-softened pieces
of the torch
the stone lady held
ages ago
before we found out
that freedom was just as imaginary
as any other silly idea we've ever had.

They propped them up
against what was left of the old Mouse-Man monument
their edges touching in a way
so that they may together provide shade
to any passing child of the wasteland.