Sunlight is snare,
rippling through the sky.
Ripping through the mourning
to remind
morning is another one. And another one.
And another one. And another one.
Sunlight is snare,
behind lamb skin tight, all wire
pulled before it splits.
Aggressive like current
against a sloppy hand and pliers.
Headaches, headaches, headaches.
Headaches, headaches, headaches.
The land of "never found" exists.
Born a bastard, die a bastard?
Professional respect? Or distance?
No clear sadness. No clear happiness.
No clear answer. Quest.
Slow drive by
as a rehearsal
with the clowns kept fed
now and then.
Long rehearsal. Conceptualization.
For a thing to be shoved off
to irrelevancy.
Landfill. Landfill. Landfill!
Fucking landfill! Unreal expectations
for the park you built atop.
We should probably charge some admission
from the folks that ply
because it will not get any more entertaining than it
is.
You will not meet their children. Good for you
both.
The end of perpetuation is beautiful
snare across the tight drum and wires
underneath that make sound go and songs complete.
The limbs to wave and the clouds to trib against them.
The leaves to stall and summer's to stale.
The flakes to gather and misery steep.
The lifeless vines to begin to gather strength
and the taste for spring to creep.
