Leave me
in this sour
bliss; the windchimes rattle
like old bones, waiting for ghosts to
disappear.
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Leave me
in this sour
bliss; the windchimes rattle
like old bones, waiting for ghosts to
disappear.
disappear
and reappear
for you are never more
real than when you are just about
to be
to be
a brown sparrow
barely noticed amongst
white swans and colourful peacocks
disguised
disguised
as myself I
pass virtually un-
noticed among the throng of the
hidden
hidden
among mossy
fallen trees and silver
webs, sparkling, silent, attentive,
i wait
i wait
so patiently
you hear no complaining
but inside, I am screaming, please
hurry
hurry
our time runs short
another day is spent
in our listless occupations
wake me
wake me
when the world is
new, when man transcends his
greed, and remembers all this is
not his
not his
not his mistakes
not his failure to love
not his fault i am discontent
but mine
but mine
is floating on
an iridescent wave
pulled by eight silver seahorses
homeward
homeward
i turn my gaze
weary of the days work
with my struggle and confusion
i'll sleep
i'll sleep
and plan my route
from the nightmare dark of
day to the free-flowing laughter
of night
of night
i dare not speak
for within those sparkling
stars my dreams lie dormant, waiting
to bloom
to bloom
or not to bloom,
that is the question, is
it nobler to wilt on the vine
or not?
or not
to travel these
winding, filthy, dreary
roads that lead straight to the back of
nowhere