(no subject)
It's times like these, when the world is mostly asleep, except for those few who cannot dream of anything beyond midnight hours and past, when three-am smacks of nothing but chills, pained stomachs and a few cold sips of ramen that was made four hours past. These are the times when the world seems most clear to me. I can look out from my perch, right beside a closed window, where seeds of the present rest in a plastic baggie, soaked with a paper towel that has been there for three days.
Have you heard the muffin man, who sings on Dreary Lane? The song, the song, the little song, of the men he's set in pain? The muffin man, the muffin man, who sits under the trees, and screams to god and godless men of truth and lies and these:
Have you heard the muffin man, who cries on Dreary Lane? His sobs, they ring, as church bells sing, though out the thrice damned land. The muffin man, the muffin man, who swings from the lowest bough, has spent his years, and cried his tears and hast taken his last bow.
Immortal? Yes I am not. Try to understand. I'm here, and you are there, and you're listening to me, because you can't hear what I'm thinking. The moon is purple, and the skies are a beautiful, smoggy grey. They threaten rain, and it's been nearly too long since I last drowned in the air.
Two unfortunate souls wander by, and I watch, from the window that is red, this room that blends from the red of veins to the orange of a pumpkin patch in full bloom. The tools of creation rest across the way, dripping still from the days that have gone by, and to the right, rests my lifeblood, the creations that haven't been born quite yet, held in jars, sparkling in hues. They already know what words they will become, but I haven't even seen them quite yet.
The brown that sparkles with a will, shimmering, the soft color of dried blood, that perfect medium to write with upon a canvas of skin. Oh yes, I've gone quite insane.
But don't worry.
I can still hear you.
Calling.
Drifting.
Can you hear the muffin man, the muffin man who died on Dreary Lane?
Have you heard the muffin man, who sings on Dreary Lane? The song, the song, the little song, of the men he's set in pain? The muffin man, the muffin man, who sits under the trees, and screams to god and godless men of truth and lies and these:
Have you heard the muffin man, who cries on Dreary Lane? His sobs, they ring, as church bells sing, though out the thrice damned land. The muffin man, the muffin man, who swings from the lowest bough, has spent his years, and cried his tears and hast taken his last bow.
Immortal? Yes I am not. Try to understand. I'm here, and you are there, and you're listening to me, because you can't hear what I'm thinking. The moon is purple, and the skies are a beautiful, smoggy grey. They threaten rain, and it's been nearly too long since I last drowned in the air.
Two unfortunate souls wander by, and I watch, from the window that is red, this room that blends from the red of veins to the orange of a pumpkin patch in full bloom. The tools of creation rest across the way, dripping still from the days that have gone by, and to the right, rests my lifeblood, the creations that haven't been born quite yet, held in jars, sparkling in hues. They already know what words they will become, but I haven't even seen them quite yet.
The brown that sparkles with a will, shimmering, the soft color of dried blood, that perfect medium to write with upon a canvas of skin. Oh yes, I've gone quite insane.
But don't worry.
I can still hear you.
Calling.
Drifting.
Can you hear the muffin man, the muffin man who died on Dreary Lane?