Upscale informants the Hats
Colored black with neck break
Speed colored sand with Heavy
Metal helmet tendencies nonsense
Rent being too high for love or
Life files in minds of man and women
In near to death relations that push
Their souls to a break point still birth

Addiction to laughing near you and
By you where the black is a class that
Annoys penetrates informs tells all
The magazines a burning in their racks
As the clouds spheres make the near to
Them closer to them the hot suit with
The restaurant girl in the ***** jean pants
Makes you turn your head guilt leans
On your temples and up there in the rafters
The ceiling is no longer - each baseball of the
Bell has its so and how about you and I go
For a ride that neither of us will come back from?

The fact of that of being alright will make Peter
Wince because the leak inside the bed of theirs
Will take us to a place whose soot is red and
Whose boots are covered in a mud that will be
Impossible to get off let the apology tear through
Fabrics in speechlessness marooned on each desert
Palms waving in the near sighted pirates of myth let
Me not make my soul a fool but my own body in mourning

I grew up too early or I grew up in the sheets
Of a place that were not my own home childhood
Is wavy like the heat strokes upon the highway
Dust settling on the dining chairs of forgotten families
Their picture frames cracked from lack of love and too
Much sun, the bushes outside wave back and forth from
A warm wind and a whisper that starts at the closet,
Trembles toward the trenches of the World War I dead and
Onward ongoing and unknown to where the weird work
For pennies without faces making them worth nothing

Here the lazy learn that life doesn't a give a **** about them
In turn their eyes collide corode from unpolished moonlight
Lain in graves un-watered and uncared for by the undertaker's
Son so soon He was forgotten by a broken family near to death
For the money was just never coming in the sunlight no longer
Favored their breathing nor their eyesight nor their feet that
Were always walking, working, and fretting over things they
Just couldn't control the cold never left them, only when they died
Were they allowed the fortune of rest, though they did not feel
It whence it came for the dead feel nothing, for the dead feel nothing ever,
For the dead feel nothing when the time has come for them to be

Heat exhausts itself like we do like humans do like people try not to
Effort affronts reverses the hill steep in incline reminds all who accept
Death's challenge snowfall makes the means to the end possible, justified
Benches wooden in their making remind me as I climb where the stuff
Comes from so in the chimes the monks bow their heads, never once
Thinking of women, or drink, or work, or food, or what despair life has
Thrown at them, they seem to only think of their God and the slow, vibrating
Hum of their vocal chords and their breath that journeys through their body
Like their life did through the world once like all of ours has done as well that
Magic wet with the tears of the forgiven youth at the jailhouse or the grieving
Murderer who was never caught but whose guilt and remorse weighs down
Their soul until the final call is made or the final toss out into the gutter from a
Bar who knows what they are, alone now with only their deed in life that has
No feeling of reward or satisfaction, only emptiness with a dream no longer with face

I hear the echoes

They taste
Metallic and golden

Like icicles of the
First rays of Fall sunlight
Through cracked translucent leaves
Chilled with a foreign wind
That is still with a sameness I
Would only associate with
A home drenched with
Childhood memories turned recollections

How the world
Turns and turns

Yet all seems the
Same everywhere

Without
Restrictions

Shackled
No more

With
Past
Present or
Future

None are
Young or
Old or
Growing Old

All
As they are

For as long
As they wish

To Be.

In Dreams,
In Dreams,

We Dream
Of But Only

One Dream