the scent of America

Into the dimly-lit sky
the faint glowing horizon
here comes the lazy moon
skimming the ridge
I fell asleep from the purr of the darkness
and the headlights' flash

Into the warmth
dimly-lit, cozy box
like the sound of rain on the shingles
my dreams danced, falling before me
before I was
submerged in sleep

Follow my cyclical lungs
draw my body's outline
shade me in
crayon colors

the earth fell away behind me
but the stars didn't get any nearer
and as soon as my feet touch the ground
between me and the stars there's a cover of clouds.
sun in the morning
snow in the sky
then what will we make of the darkness that laps at our eyes?
and what else is there left to say
when truth's hardly leading the way, only changing it?
forever revolving the way
embracing the length of a day
but not dwell on it.
paint white the walls,
opportunity falls
into the dark, deep, blackness of potentials.
purpose without meaning,
motivation, no direction.
the world still exists if it's a matter of perception.

like a poem rather
than a song
not stuck in the head
but in the heart
with an existential reminder
at the end of someone else's sentences

a beetle plucks the string
of the grandfather banjo
the hint that someone is here
too near to see
it's maybe just me

strangled by miles
of telephone wires
locusts are patient and easy
like the turning of the earth
and the kneading of the sea

an elaborate symbol
for restless fingers
untying the knot of uncertainty
missing that which escapes
back into the sky

I wish you and I would intertwine
like a silver-blue thread through the darkness,
and unravel ourselves,
float like dust, illuminated by the sunlight,
so I can't tell me from you.
I wish we'd be the small, overlooked tones,
making up a melody,
that faintly linger on subconsciously.
Me and you should be the wind
and the willow,
and kaleidoscopic convolutions of the sky,
of the mind;
a bouquet of flowers,
shared,
with a once-empty park bench,
for some lonely souls.
Their unseen smiles blossom in return.
There's plenty of life, even in a graveyard,
There is simply,
lots of love
between
all things.

something can be felt so deeply,
that it is not felt at all.

light can be so bright,
that it makes you blind.

silence can be so quiet,
that it is unbearable to hear.

things will only come together,
to be undone again.

I'm hiding myself so you cannot see
I've gone off somewhere that I'd much rather be
My lungs are staggering
My feet fly free
Down the street to the cemetery white pine trees
The biggest one's roots are cradling my back
And filling the holes of the things that I lack
Memories come flooding like tears from my eyes
As the guardians of existence drift through the sky
Nothing lines up quite the way that it should
But the curves of my back, and those of the wood
I don't really know
and I can't really see
As I sit beneath this great white pine tree