Have you ever asked yourself what your mind sounds like?
The cathedral of the orchestra?
When I first began,
I remember the end,
But in these forgotten hallways of our minds,
I embrace the trembling face of what was,
I'm talking about our future,
And your yesterday..
I'm talking about the shiplights on the horizon of those four-letter sounds,
Screaming, "what will be?"
But staring us in the face,
Day by day is this pounding answer of we.we.we.
When the drums rattling the shaking hands of the spirit-bound minister are trumpeting into the sky can we truly tell what tomorrow ever was meant to ask.
Excuse me mister and excuse me sister,
I stand here on a precipice of inspiration,
A fountainhead of thought.
In the morrow,
Less lives lived in sorrow,
More lives lived in the lights of days borrowed.
I gathered my shriveling hands under the meat of what was,
Only ever begging for the daybreak to come sooner,
I peer over the melting stretches of unbroken earth,
Screaming for a new day, I say, "who? Am I."
Bless me with your rotten future and plague me with your desperate heart for in the sunrise,
There are no questions.
Only ceaseless observation.
Bring me yesterday's whispers and whimper into the future with a dying heart,
The day is come.
And yes.. Sometimes I do ask myself,
Why was I born into this?
This dying fate of don't ask why.
Such naked sight and active fire,
Drumming out rhythms of my central chord,
Tapping and mapping,
The things keeping the man up in the darkness,
Is only the very echoes of his own mind,
Do you hear anyone else in that chamber?
This beat is dropped for your sound.
The rippling dribble of speech which I pull from the depths of canyon beaches forgotten,
I only ask to bow to the doors,
The hollowed-out floors,
Years passed of sleepless dreaming,
So in the morning light that I may squint out a new sight,
A new sound,
A new.. Touch.
For all we ever were,
And yes, all we ever will be,
Is everything.