The sky caught fire today and I saw the smoke this mourning
I saw all this in a dream but didn't remember that till it'd happened. I'm high on cloves and something else. I'd call it magic, but that would allude to a credence I'm just waiting to feel.
I've always been lucky, but this is something different. The words flow from my pen like silk, or I tell myself that at least. These days I'm Tom O' Bedlam, mad bard in a waking dream, living quiet desperation. I'm not the last there is.
I've realized something wonderous, but I can't think it nor speak it. So, I'm cryptic and melancholy, glowing with hope. The stars could outline my smile, mark me ageless for all I care.
My hair's growing longer, curling at the ends, framing features that will be boyish until the day I die. These are phoenix days, rising splendor from the ashes, and there's a shine in my touch. Never could my eyes be this blue, nor four words ring so true.
This is a glimmer of my past, coming full circle, always this. I tried to write of smut, of fucking and fighting. It wouldn't come, today. No, today I might sing, the way I sometimes sound silver to myself and bring goosbumps to my skin. I remember wings and cockiness, the way she said "See? I told you he has a great smile." A mystery, a legend, and I can dream again.
Why I have this gift or how it was given to me, I don't know. It's nameless but understood, unfathomably right.
One more cigarette smoked to the filter and cast to death-green waves. I hope I remember this when it's over, but it's not over yet.
A riddle, played at poetry, I try hard to grasp at grains of sand slipping golden through my fingers. One day I'll get it and float starward, unforgotten. Till then I'm still trying, dancing singing grey to blue. My mortality, a treasure. I'll be unforgotten you.
Seabirds and this seawall and memories in the stone. If this makes sense, I'll be surprised, but it's worth writing. My letter to the masses, beauty in the grey. Feral, ugly, pretty, I'm still a wolf this day.
I will always remember...
I've always been lucky, but this is something different. The words flow from my pen like silk, or I tell myself that at least. These days I'm Tom O' Bedlam, mad bard in a waking dream, living quiet desperation. I'm not the last there is.
I've realized something wonderous, but I can't think it nor speak it. So, I'm cryptic and melancholy, glowing with hope. The stars could outline my smile, mark me ageless for all I care.
My hair's growing longer, curling at the ends, framing features that will be boyish until the day I die. These are phoenix days, rising splendor from the ashes, and there's a shine in my touch. Never could my eyes be this blue, nor four words ring so true.
This is a glimmer of my past, coming full circle, always this. I tried to write of smut, of fucking and fighting. It wouldn't come, today. No, today I might sing, the way I sometimes sound silver to myself and bring goosbumps to my skin. I remember wings and cockiness, the way she said "See? I told you he has a great smile." A mystery, a legend, and I can dream again.
Why I have this gift or how it was given to me, I don't know. It's nameless but understood, unfathomably right.
One more cigarette smoked to the filter and cast to death-green waves. I hope I remember this when it's over, but it's not over yet.
A riddle, played at poetry, I try hard to grasp at grains of sand slipping golden through my fingers. One day I'll get it and float starward, unforgotten. Till then I'm still trying, dancing singing grey to blue. My mortality, a treasure. I'll be unforgotten you.
Seabirds and this seawall and memories in the stone. If this makes sense, I'll be surprised, but it's worth writing. My letter to the masses, beauty in the grey. Feral, ugly, pretty, I'm still a wolf this day.
I will always remember...