Fire burning on the horizon.
Rising smoke eclipsing the sun
riding on the wind without an aim.
If nothing changed, it wouldn't be the same.

How many words can you fit into your mind
telling you what you'll lose, what you'll leave behind?
You're tearing out your roots trying to find food
but it'll be much sweeter if you wait for the fruit.

How many days can you fit into your life
sitting in a sweaty room trying to stay on time?
Are you losing your days in the arms of the night?
When the stars are all shining are you bathing in the light?

How many times have you sat in reverie
rejoicing in the moment and letting it be?
Lately I've been thinking how I seem
to only be as real as the eddy of a stream.

Fire burning on the horizon.
Rising smoke eclipsing the sun
riding on the wind without an aim.
If nothing changed, it wouldn't be the same.

Aye, that crescent cuts the cloud
with golden slits of predilection
for the fog's encompassing shroud
and a parasol's protection.
The sun's spring-time blooming
auric light nearly blinds my eye
because that beauty's all consuming
with eulogies woven through the sky.
I contemplate the blazing fires
along the razor edge of the sword
slicing thoughts with solar spirals
eliminating the errant, straying word,
and cast back the black magic
of numbed-down confusion
while sharpening my moon sickle
on the whetstone of illusion.

I wonder if I'll see you again, or if you ever tried
to send a coded message everywhere that I am blind.
I hope you know I never had an eye for reading minds.
Maybe it was written in a language I can't read
between the hidden syllables of words I cannot speak.
Or maybe it's in the way I constantly long to be
somewhere in the redwoods umbrella'd by the canopy
in a drizzle of rain,
fog creeping into mist,
while owls read their poems
with nothing to do but to exist.

I tried to recede into my body,
down through the pulsing fluids
pushing minerals into bone.
I tried to find a moment's solace
in the patterned cavern of my heart,
but I met with opposition.
Now, I'm gliding 'round the obstacles,
sliding along the path of least resistance,
bound, by misconception, for the slavery of sensation.

I'm gunna walk on down the road.
Lace my shoes and I'll be gone.
I'll let the wind blow through my hair
and my steps play a gravel drum
as my thoughts merge with the air.
With ethereal feet I'll move on by,
past the cities and the towns.
I'll find a quiet place to sit and try
to fill the space that gets me down.
When the sun is setting slowly
turning the sky into an amber dome
I'll think of all my friends and family
urging me to come back home.

I'll turn and walk the other way
through the valleys of the night
and let the stars be my reflection
as I wander through the pines.
The evening's chorus is different
but the song remains the same
as I wind back through the cities,
through the alleys and the lanes.
When I meet that gravel path again
I'll know I've finally made it home.
I'll see my family and friends,
and know there's no need to be alone.

What did you whisper in the morning?
Was it the cursed introduction to a tale
written in the dialect of mourning,
where dreams and satisfaction fail?

What were you singing in the evening?
Was it a prelude to the ballad of the time
that threads unwound with confusion weaving
between chiseled cracks and faded rhyme?

What did the mountain echo to you?
Was it exactly what you wanted to hear,
did you find the timbre shifted blue,
watching all the texture disappear?

What did you dream of while sleeping?
Was it a prophetic message from the spirits,
a promise offered in protection and safe-keeping
or malevolent magic disguised as lyrics?