Tall glass towers; on mountains of golden lakes. An island of ten million dreams; blinded by the lights of life. Heaven is a time like no other, as nothing has an end. But all of it's residents have met their end.
Phased by the breath of tens of labours; the works of my hands. I built glass memories, so fragile of remembering a tragic past. All that is wasted; wasting away in thoughts. ****** as my hairs in the morning. Some on my neck, of having their rest on my pillowcases.
A heavy throat, and it's husky voice. Mmh mmh; clearing it to speak into a day. This morning is a timeless piece of whisky; strong as the first swallow of belief.
believe of any goodness ahead of me for today? A chance of better wealth to add some weight to a wallet? Meeting my potential love; as they're waiting out there?
But when, and how far are all of these things?
Who are the fools to know; all of the wisdom of ancestors of where they should go? My forefathers have been at this place before. I do suppose; that I am progresses living words.
Onwards, forward, towards, heading, advances, going to the places of what progress asks of me to go.
I'll sing a song of Sophie and the life I've left behind I've kept all your love notes but I never found the time to write you back I lost track it always slipped my mind until the day I lost you and I could no longer call you mine.
Knocking on your door But no one's home today I brought a cake and iced champagne It was supposed to be a special occasion I call and get no answer I get no explanation I'm just standing here by myself But I guess that's how it goes So, oh well Songbirds Lovebirds What difference does it make? It's all a dance to be danced The end result is the same Everything that happens winds up in the grave Still wide awake at 2 My palms sweat in a motel room See you again? Maybe the next time Maybe someday soon
In a realm of two moons and three suns not afraid to be besieged by everlasting brightness, where everyone speaks from their heart spires and devils and scorpions cavort with sprites, magic coexisted with every day miracles. People would cross on invisible bridges as easily as Jesus walking on water, on their way to their great soul’s quest.
Now as tablets led to handwriting and then to thousands of computer fonts, where seeking adventure becomes short code for finding death and despair, where sprites now dine on pixie sticks and fairies no longer spread their dust, where those who believe in magic are greatly outnumbered by those who don’t, where everyone’s top half exists with their bottom self wandering about and never finding each other, where wizardry is replaced with technology- the common light bulb and automobile- is when wonderment gets consigned to the bottomless pit of foolishness.
Then magic waits in hidden castles, patient not for those who have it and don’t see it, but those who need it the most and know that it reveals the truth behind the disguises, waiting for that old broken stead to reveal that its Pegasus and that spell they chanted to lead them back home to the magic of their parent’s’ embrace.