One solemn clothes line
Battered in the gale.
Drenched and cold and sodden
Forgotten among the rain.

One stubborn clothes peg
That clings triumphant on the line,
Cursing the sky and tempest
As the last sock flies away sublime.

The rain falls in whispers,
Meanders through the
Cracks in our lives.
The sky claps sardonically
Prophetic, pathetic fallacy
Alive and well.
As time swells and breathes
Solaris flares, coughs and heaves.
Scorched earth, ashen leaves.
The rain is gone but so's
The emerald green.

Every triumph that we forge
And every evil that we lay
Are etched on the quilt of reality
Brought out to the light of day.

There is always a witness,
Even if it's you.
Walls are a sign of something hidden,
Something we wish to be out of view.
But our masonry is shoddy,
Our archers ill prepared.
The walls will fall transparent
As hollow as our flaws that all are aired.

Youth was never about the innocence
Or the ignorance of what lay ahead.
It was never the friendships
Sailing the waves of imagination.
Or releshing the times we were astray and led.

It was certainly never the dreams,
We have those our entire life
Eight hours a day or night
Spent in mind forged make believe.
It was never the plans that were hatched,
Thatched and woven but semi detached
From what it all could mean.

That lack of conscience, the guilt
It all does feed the fire.
And that is youth, a proving ground
Among candles and lanterns, bonfires,
Cities raized to the ground.
Perhaps a grand symphony of light
May, with time and care be made,
The image burned on an iris fades.
Drowned out and forgotten by the
Light of a billion flames.