the quiet engine of passing time
produces gremlins in the shadows of morning
they steal the warmth from his cup of coffee
they place landmines on his daily road to perdition
'this is what madness must be like'
he said to himself as the dawn seeped into the room
one tear stained ray of sunshine at a time
because each added moment lighted reveals
more of her damaged face
more of her impossible eyes

her words hurt his ears as she bleeds his strength
she is a peddler of perils
whats your fantasy she cries out
tied to the railroad tracks like a maiden
or walking the long mile with the skeleton key in hand
the key opens all enduring keepsakes
and releases them to crawling thieves
you cannot retain your world for more than
a flickering moment
so you loose faith that it can ever be done
i miss her
and i miss my daughter
but she is a peddler of perils
and she now comes grinning and fast *******

my head full of noise
so my thoughts gather round
like they are at the Battle Of The Alamo
to the necessity of self preservation
and the warm comforting blanket of self interest
manufacture reasons to do what the ***** dictate
but its her goal to see such endeavor
fold under the weight
of her guilt trip

back in the echo box
she quietly shouts into
the acoustic confusion
madly laughing and the ensuing army
of echoes marching in lockstep to her mad mad laugh
of her mad mad laugh
of her mad mad laugh

we spend the day between the
sheets wrestling each others sweaty forms

i miss her