Lying alone in the crisp cold breaths,
of the shifting shadows,
in our aged attic,
sipping the gin from my flask.
The spirit they call Death,
it held me in its arms,
and told me I was a child beyond my present.
Not heaven sent, nor innocent.
He said the cocoon is hanging in the sky,
and soon all men will die,
right above Hamlet’s hot hair,
but all we can do is stop and stare,
but then again, Death is only a word in a liquid that freezes,
and still my guitar gently breezes.
Now plunging into another whiskey bottle so manifest,
sipping with the same spoon of my childlike past.
Listening to the songs of those times,
from the cardinals below,
The puddles in my heart, so deep, yet oh so shallow.
There are so many worlds in our eyes,
more species, more flies.
I see my reflection in the television.
Just a man I’ll never understand,
a stranger in some kind of danger.
I can’t understand why my heart races, in such frantic paces.
I’ve been watching a lot of faces in these worlds.
So many beautiful, terrible signs being orchestrated.
Too great for human hands, as it implodes in my mind’s eye.
By now the serpent is circulating through my veins,
squeezing my neck with unbearable strains.
The changing winds took away the air in our throats,
to a place higher than the highest notes,
that used to dance in our voices.
Now we are forced to suppress that feeling between us.
Your heart is just a hoax,
played like an act for the common folks.
Your eyes are no longer my golden prize,
just two dark windows,
where the creature cries.