Faces in the mirror, starring back. Do they see me?
I feel them thinking, I am crazy for believing I am free
In that starring I see my own eyes prying.
Is he trying to understand that Im not lying?
I am just trying to find my way home its already half past three.
White Faces strewn about
Some humble some without
In colour they frown while they wait
Echoes of a past shattering great
Rooted in exile in this strangeness, home is an echo bout
Deeds of a Past ringing great
The sleep on stone
On leaves we ate
Sounds of a shop about
A Childs death the elders mourn
Summer was late
New was when old was torn
Pockets filled with date
Girls smelled like corn
A mother’s cry from the shed below
To her calf of her fate
Grow as we may hearts turning brown
Brown as the willow
Burnt as my knee
A glance to cast a man to become
Standing alone
We seize
The red turns green
The lady in a men’s suit
Casts her sight umpteen
The freeze she wants may be?
Or am I as cold she can see
Its 21 more trees to home
Which what it may have become
Thoughts like dates on a tree
Only ever some become necessary
We seize again remembering Im hungry
Is that tree where he’s supposed to be?
If words were thread and the cloth was we
What will from the needle weave?
How much of what less we know heave
Like the 100 cars in front we may know only three.
Priests, prostitutes, pest controllers and the rest
Taking the same way in distress
Along the winding char colored road
Dry green trees, fields of corrugated roofs erode
Drink! For, once dead you never shall re address...
This poem not the secret well of life to learn
Just glaring thoughts raring for a meaning to earn
Toddling along my every day tree that I at the least see twice
Are there gods in this world where we crawl like mice?
The road still winding as the big boned lady’s eyes on my raspberry churn yearn
The light turns green and the road leads to another where the hill admires
The faces il miss.
I feel them thinking, I am crazy for believing I am free
In that starring I see my own eyes prying.
Is he trying to understand that Im not lying?
I am just trying to find my way home its already half past three.
White Faces strewn about
Some humble some without
In colour they frown while they wait
Echoes of a past shattering great
Rooted in exile in this strangeness, home is an echo bout
Deeds of a Past ringing great
The sleep on stone
On leaves we ate
Sounds of a shop about
A Childs death the elders mourn
Summer was late
New was when old was torn
Pockets filled with date
Girls smelled like corn
A mother’s cry from the shed below
To her calf of her fate
Grow as we may hearts turning brown
Brown as the willow
Burnt as my knee
A glance to cast a man to become
Standing alone
We seize
The red turns green
The lady in a men’s suit
Casts her sight umpteen
The freeze she wants may be?
Or am I as cold she can see
Its 21 more trees to home
Which what it may have become
Thoughts like dates on a tree
Only ever some become necessary
We seize again remembering Im hungry
Is that tree where he’s supposed to be?
If words were thread and the cloth was we
What will from the needle weave?
How much of what less we know heave
Like the 100 cars in front we may know only three.
Priests, prostitutes, pest controllers and the rest
Taking the same way in distress
Along the winding char colored road
Dry green trees, fields of corrugated roofs erode
Drink! For, once dead you never shall re address...
This poem not the secret well of life to learn
Just glaring thoughts raring for a meaning to earn
Toddling along my every day tree that I at the least see twice
Are there gods in this world where we crawl like mice?
The road still winding as the big boned lady’s eyes on my raspberry churn yearn
The light turns green and the road leads to another where the hill admires
The faces il miss.
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