we dashed our hopes, we smoked our dreams
we collaborated with our saboteurs
while the shots were still echoing

we tried to hide our tired eyes
with wired silent sighs
that were a final long goodbye
before our minds even recognized

too slow to get up on this rhythm
pulling pins down nicely
while shooting barrel fishes

and the polite, smiling, trusting
are the worst ones to grow up with

it's a long walk home with the sidewalk becoming headphones
footsteps keep the beat, the bass of your breath is baritone
the memories of the street call out in a chorus of overtones
you finally feel at home as you become a walking metronome

you're a movement or overture
crescendo in reverse composure
a serenade that plays over
common resolution, different closure

the repeating beats are deafening
the rising tempo is chasing me
the rhythm is catastrophe
and this is my symphony i made with the streets

the silent impact passes as movements become masses and the despised things become what we're after.  we're our own last chapter, ununique to the minute but maybe rare the moment after.  we're glued to television screens the preach our own defeat and don't even acknowledge our new masters or their dying dreams.  your life is a worried line and devoid of devoted patchwork.

dire sirens blaze as i ire lights to do the same
fire consumes desire and wired nights are left to blame
while the mired tired chime in that they also want a taste
the inspired have conspired and perspired away the shame

the flights are nights we've compiled into piles
and sights and lights are set on the ceiling and tiles
the fights deny what's right and blood goes for miles
and the right to die is what's sequencing our style

your moment was a second and it was shot to death in front of you.  but first it asked what you are going to do.  sit around and wait for a second chance to lose any moment that'll never come again and always shows up too soon? or sleep all day and forget you had a better life to prove?

i felt a tear, mostly in motion
collapsing into spirals, we find ourselves here
part awake dreams that lull you to sleep
or the way you tell yourself
you're not seeing things

how clever you are to be confused with a star
and when you implode i hope you recite alibis
because the truths you lie about won't matter anymore
and the dying few planets are how we even the score

the mighty have fallen but this time it's for good
misunderstood are the few who can't laugh enough
at the fire that's been alive for far too long
and the homes that have burned have become verses of songs

plead with the captors to silence the rapture
or at least mislead us from the treasure we're after
it's not like the dead can make promises reverse
but at least we're not still chasing that ******* hearse

scared melody, the sacred surgery. the sacramental  discrepancies
will remind us of the finer things
like circuitry and hurried dreams

despite what i've been reading it seems like the world has taken to leaning
on its side or on its head, we're sent careening
well past the point of believing

come at me with all the aggression in your possession
deny no weapons and don't wait for second guesses
because you always gave me that first impression

politely past sleep and still there's very little worth sobering for
i thought I'd heard another neighbor kicking down my door
turns out it was just my head hitting the floor

i've almost erased everything of this portrait that once made a face.  the landscape remains but the memories aren't the same and even without a voice I still hear a name.  colors become mute and grey, night becomes boring when it's permanently day.  so what is there really left to say; drawn down words are curtains on this place and the house lights burn so bright, eager to become flames.  

i'm a vandal of a curator or the wrong end of a metaphor.  i think "this is what solvent's are for" 'as I take deep breaths upon the floor.  it's a win-win if you're trying to ignore the opening and closing of windows and doors.  tell me how I wasn't supposed to even the score when i'm barely old enough to go to war?