Silas Thorne's Journal

The song is lost, the song is lost and done.
The song is lost, a new song treds what road?
I looked, the words to journey by are gone,
the song is sung, the song is sung and done.

Without walking on, the song is lost, the song is sung.

The song is lost, a new song treds what road?

Where's hot to stand
some things bear walking on.
Where sharp rocks on a yellow beach
speak painfully to my bare feet
a bondless bondsman sheds his tears.
Wash off the sand, the sand collects.

The sunset choked on flames and coughed to death,
the hills, all paling in the shadow light
left us no guiding point to compass steps.
No earthling thing cried out its nighttime song.

Lost in a marketplace
a glint shining in an eyeball
and captured in a
cleaver cutting bone
he was alone.

One day I got lost in a line of the Da Vinci Code
and found myself in an American high school class
where no one could answer the teacher's questions
about American history,
apart from the vampire.

The old man stared with bloodred gaze
at delectable young women
while they oohed and aahed at his young body,
dragged in by his eyes into rapture and death.

He could look pasty and stay out of the sun
moaning breathy ...