We fall, following doors, a jarr of sun,

The pale flowering of romantic youth,

As we are painted by pictures we run,

And all new meadows a vale of bloom.

She was far away
In some distant land
In her head
One only she had the
Endurance to navigate
I am an artist of geography.
She would tell me
On the days
She was deeper in
The jungle of her mind
Than she usually was

But I wanted to save her
So I sent out
A search team
To find someone
Who was not really lost
Either way nobody
Could find
This girl.

One day
Years later
There was a knock
On my door
I still have not
Reached the pacific,
I am trying
To find the limits
Of this land
In my head
But I have yet
To find the coast.
I am trying
To make a map
Of my mind
And when I do
I will paint you a copy.

But you are limitless
I wanted to tell her
no map could encompass
the capacity of sheer beauty
that your mind is
But instead
I watched
And I let
Her walk back
Into the jungle

we have listened to the
same three albums over
fifty times, and i am
running out of way to
avoid telling you the truth

Addiction is a real thing
South of the last thing... a grim dope
in the hopeless soap fiend
of a washing; where a mind dreams
but a head, thinks -
where a heart
stopped.

and we live
Unseen.

Why didn't you tell someone sooner?*
They ask
As judgement bleeds from their eyes
And suspicion seeps through their pores.
I shrug
Admit I have absolutely no proof
And continue to look like a fool
To everyone in the room.
A dream sequence this may be
But it's not like it hasn't happened before
And won't happen again.
There's no point in explaining
Reliving that nightmare
Or becoming the victim
When he will get away with it anyway.
I already know how this story ends
And therefore
My lips remain sealed.