(no subject)
For the man I call Ernest
["Where would we rest if it wasn't for all of this?" we thought. "He'll come around." And so we pondered ourselves into quiet bliss. He can only wander for so long; 'can only go drumming til the end of the song. Only yea finite wide by yea finite long. I'm thinking maybe there's nothing that can't be overcome, but the sound still sounds from the bottomless drum.]
Too broken and tired, but too ill to sit in place, so we both stare our lives away out to the open space.
Backtrack.
"Come back.." (pled the son)
Lust-locked lovers in a grainy hum.
What do we want but someone to become? Vicarious living has grown much too cumbersome. If only it weren't a blessing to be unconscious and aware. Silences seem too audible; Our sight will drift us clear.
And perhaps there's maybe nothing we couldn't someday do. Just too much here for ego-me and ego-you.
All but nothing abandoned, to find the bag-man who holds the gun. Silly end-time sandbox fun; All we can do under this dying sun.
Watch me hold the door ajar for you; show the things I thought only I could do.
eyelids shifting, pupils glow... wish you never knew the things I know.
["Where would we rest if it wasn't for all of this?" we thought. "He'll come around." And so we pondered ourselves into quiet bliss. He can only wander for so long; 'can only go drumming til the end of the song. Only yea finite wide by yea finite long. I'm thinking maybe there's nothing that can't be overcome, but the sound still sounds from the bottomless drum.]
Too broken and tired, but too ill to sit in place, so we both stare our lives away out to the open space.
Backtrack.
"Come back.." (pled the son)
Lust-locked lovers in a grainy hum.
What do we want but someone to become? Vicarious living has grown much too cumbersome. If only it weren't a blessing to be unconscious and aware. Silences seem too audible; Our sight will drift us clear.
And perhaps there's maybe nothing we couldn't someday do. Just too much here for ego-me and ego-you.
All but nothing abandoned, to find the bag-man who holds the gun. Silly end-time sandbox fun; All we can do under this dying sun.
Watch me hold the door ajar for you; show the things I thought only I could do.
eyelids shifting, pupils glow... wish you never knew the things I know.