Buckethead - Machete Mirage
4. Machete Mirage
Saturday morning, I brush cobwebs from
your pale irises--did you see
this week fly by, did you see
midnight fireflies? Sunday
night sprays across your numbing fingers
My feathers scatter across your
quiet chest, and I sleep to the rumbling of your
trepidation, anticipation,
Monday morning and
you cannot hear the birds.
Saturday morning, I brush cobwebs from
your pale irises--did you see
this week fly by, did you see
midnight fireflies? Sunday
night sprays across your numbing fingers
My feathers scatter across your
quiet chest, and I sleep to the rumbling of your
trepidation, anticipation,
Monday morning and
you cannot hear the birds.