each string is a dimension
and he's traversing them
fourth, fifth, ninth;
symphonies of light and color
with mathematical precision
that astronauts would envy
but he didn't sign up for space travel
and to touch the earth again would be like
being born a prodigy of mud and sky
you can see it on his face, flashing,
like the shooting stars his fingers so desperately pattern out
across the red wood, the color of home
so from dust he must try to create
a galaxy, when no man is a god

he was a man of many words
who wasn't afraid of a fight
so he joined the debate team (without
parent permission) and
boy what a shame
that poor little rich girl
with letters in her hair just so happened
to snitch to his conscience
about his unfair advantage
so he went downhill until nowhere was left
but hellfire theatre where he hid
and the flowers didn't bloom in sun
because she was always there to guide him
so to see his calla lilies he tore the sky
until no words were left to read on her face

you've got a forest burning in your eyes
that's never going to grow from the ashes
so move to the city and knock it down
like building blocks you want to go back to
but there's too many lovers in the way
so come away to the meadow with me
plant a few flowers and watch them grow to the sky
we have nowhere to be til they touch the stars
and then we can climb their young stalks
to see how far we've come since we lit a match

how about we start again
2:30 a.m. with broken televisions
reliving yesterday's disasters
just like when the waves informed me
that i don't hate clocks, i just thought i could
because you can since you're a god like im a goddess
but sometimes earth holds me down
just like the depths of the ocean that are too cold to
breathe in
and i do like the clocks because
my heart has no rhythm
like wind
so my metronome is something you will never follow
despite my silent requiem you yearn to find
and even i can't seem to fall asleep
with the sound of on-screen ocean storms in my ears
that you just can't seem to hear
on the next street over