2:38:43 AM - 8/17/06
think i blew out the last one (on a slow whim)
fancied out rather further than high
the mark tells a story all but glorious and sly
still sings like a flute, fingers like a hymn
she was bent on a hell-bent, hell-raising lie
told herself late on a felt-tip(ped) pen
"whale of a story you tell yourself, men"
bless their heart, though, right? "they do try."
if you would go on go on go on please pass through
our bricks have eyes, but only their sad color
is rust like the rest of them, somehow duller
when lying, packed in walls, with nothing to do.
all bad punctuation aside - or feeling on hold -
the scent of our loss is still beating around us
and all we can do is stay glued to the ground lest
our powers deny us; at least that's what we're told.
fancied out rather further than high
the mark tells a story all but glorious and sly
still sings like a flute, fingers like a hymn
she was bent on a hell-bent, hell-raising lie
told herself late on a felt-tip(ped) pen
"whale of a story you tell yourself, men"
bless their heart, though, right? "they do try."
if you would go on go on go on please pass through
our bricks have eyes, but only their sad color
is rust like the rest of them, somehow duller
when lying, packed in walls, with nothing to do.
all bad punctuation aside - or feeling on hold -
the scent of our loss is still beating around us
and all we can do is stay glued to the ground lest
our powers deny us; at least that's what we're told.