Who is it that you write to
some face in your third eye
vague and dreamy
Who are your messages for
the phantom universe hovering over your bed
That noisy place you wrest your head
Some folks inquire-
"What is it you desire?"
And the only sound answer is
"Everything."
But nothing in particular-
Maybe a cottage by the sea
Salty taste
Far from him
In an isolated tea party
with that hatter who lost touch with reality
At least as dreamers see it
And when I fall asleep it's not next to him
I wasn't his enemy when he's insecure
and now he's someone else's disease to cure
Beaten roads lead to many distances
Tomorrow could dissipate like breathes
I speak to ghosts on the outskirts of society
Wandering souls who speak in emotion
who can only be touched by melodies
that hover like fog over a graveyard
Those apparitions on the road that
disappear after you catch them in your peripherals
We are a dying brood of siblings
Superseded by imitation and the death of community
Magic lives in owl eyes and sits on benches at midnight
with only it's own voice to console itself when no one sees it