I said my prayers
by the lamp of disease
Cast up my lots to
a heaven I didn't
know was there
I asked the question
in the back of a
left-over imagination,
scratched the pages
of my life until
they were somewhat
workable
And with the confetti
that I'd made
I forged a collage of
aspirations and
disillusion,
expression and
desperate pride
This artwork I
cleaved to my breast
as if it needed
nourishment,
held on even when
the hourglass had
long since disappeared
The sand had drifted
towards the oasis of
my sanity,
obscuring every truth
in drifts of
golden unmade glass
All that's left
is the art,
All I've got is that fusion,
the locomotion of
creation that keeps
me glued right to my seat
There's all that's left
is this unrealized edifice,
a synchronization,
an episode where realities
all boil down to one
And then we're standing here,
with a lamp and the heavens
Now we're crying here,
with the disease and a chance
that if something were
to come from this,
it may just be called a life...