for aiden.
the day has come
when our baby
orchestrates the symphony
and we call him
maestro child
he waves his
plastic arms wildly
and without permission
his eyelashes drop
when he leans back
in fits of musical fury
we're terrified
and in awe
of what we've created
and what it's made
he rides the train alone
and collects good conversation
welcome to holidayland
is what the sign says
generously opening it's
arms wide to him
while i rest in
jessica's bluffs
where the train tracks whine
and count their pennies
he keeps to himself
before the child arrives
i remember
our friend with wings
would have died
if it weren't for the
whsipers which spun
his eyes away from the white light
and wiped the blood
from his helpless cheek
he steps off the train
the stairs creak
i'm sure it's him
when he's found me
i am aware now
he looks sad
like he does
with his hand in his pockets
and little red lines
around his eyes
then i smile
his nostrils flare
and one cheek
lifts itself from my bed
and he does too
he knows
i've been waiting here
between rude horses
for my music man
and his twin
to keep me from the back
i tell him
with my white hands
that there's no pride
in being the friend
who makes beds
on the floor of our submarine
but the yarn has knit itself
and now i wear a soft crown
and with my sunken eyes
i thank him
for letting me sweat differently
when he looks past me
and the red lines get wet
i put his hand on my torn quilt
above my heart
maybe one day
when i've left the parisian trellace
and this giant holidayland
when you can't free the songs anymore
you'll visit me
where i like bright lights
and parties
where gangs don't scare me
and neither do the young ones
in heaven
if that's what we believe
we could live together
in a red accordion
with our needle and thread children
while they count roosters
with string
i'll witch us a well
because i'm the supernatural skeptic
and you'll carry a gun
loaded with hearts
this is how we're friends
then his bent fingers
close my eyes
and accept the transformation
if that's what we believe
when our baby
orchestrates the symphony
and we call him
maestro child
he waves his
plastic arms wildly
and without permission
his eyelashes drop
when he leans back
in fits of musical fury
we're terrified
and in awe
of what we've created
and what it's made
he rides the train alone
and collects good conversation
welcome to holidayland
is what the sign says
generously opening it's
arms wide to him
while i rest in
jessica's bluffs
where the train tracks whine
and count their pennies
he keeps to himself
before the child arrives
i remember
our friend with wings
would have died
if it weren't for the
whsipers which spun
his eyes away from the white light
and wiped the blood
from his helpless cheek
he steps off the train
the stairs creak
i'm sure it's him
when he's found me
i am aware now
he looks sad
like he does
with his hand in his pockets
and little red lines
around his eyes
then i smile
his nostrils flare
and one cheek
lifts itself from my bed
and he does too
he knows
i've been waiting here
between rude horses
for my music man
and his twin
to keep me from the back
i tell him
with my white hands
that there's no pride
in being the friend
who makes beds
on the floor of our submarine
but the yarn has knit itself
and now i wear a soft crown
and with my sunken eyes
i thank him
for letting me sweat differently
when he looks past me
and the red lines get wet
i put his hand on my torn quilt
above my heart
maybe one day
when i've left the parisian trellace
and this giant holidayland
when you can't free the songs anymore
you'll visit me
where i like bright lights
and parties
where gangs don't scare me
and neither do the young ones
in heaven
if that's what we believe
we could live together
in a red accordion
with our needle and thread children
while they count roosters
with string
i'll witch us a well
because i'm the supernatural skeptic
and you'll carry a gun
loaded with hearts
this is how we're friends
then his bent fingers
close my eyes
and accept the transformation
if that's what we believe