I.
A mountain of white set against a gray sky so bleak
A puffy pureness its jaded peak
The soft and tender stare breathlessly in awe
While those of cold heart believe they’ve manifested God
And all the while I can’t help but wonder what’s right
As dusk cleanses the sins of the day thus preparing us for night

II.
Paint me a sunset in the pupils of your eyes
Kiss me with the lightness of a wispy cloud
Sigh into my ear and tell me another loving lie
Hold onto my skin and speak to me with,
The language of your body in a tone so loud
So loud that I’ll hear every word you breathe
So loud that in the darkness I can still see
So loud that it’ll echo off of you and me

III.
He was posed just like the blue guitarist
Who in silence taught me his tale
Legs crossed like Buddha
As tired as an ancient gorilla
Or perhaps just a pubescent primate
Jesus lies passed out in the bedroom
Two doors down on the right
While the Jack of Hearts tunes himself
In the key of major, or maybe it was minor, secrets since past
The guitar strings shriek in anticipation for the feelings soon to come
Still in my head I can’t help but feel nothing
Still in my head I feel numb

IV.
Meanwhile, outside the dirty stained glass windows
Street corner shamans deal out their own home bred ounces of hope
You can’t help but listen when their rhymes are so desirously dope
And so you just flow
On your own spinning wheels of fate,
Driving with the faith that you won’t get a flat
But once you break down in the middle of this worn out world
You’re too afraid to look back on what you’ve left behind
You carry on with what could be the courage, or the curiosity, to find
That there’s a philosopher’s stone residing in the caverns of your mind
But this knowledge you so lusted for, is only power
While creativity is real peace
So release your expressions, your art, your life, and your words
The greatest gift we have is the gift of gab
So why not take a stab at striking it rich in fool’s gold
Swap the same old story retold in your way
While holding council with the chiefs of compassion
We’ll smoke our ceremonial pipes of peace that puff out pieces of passion
Allowing our thoughts to float away and mingle with the clouds
Inciting laughter so luscious and loud
That we hear thunder

V.
Let me drift off into the womb of the weaver of dreams
Where I don’t have to think anymore
Where everything is really what it seams

VI.
I am awake
I think
The midnight ink is spilling
Into my mourning eyes
My body feels soaked in sweat
Maybe it’s just regret
Either way it must have been a sleepy turmoil
I feel as though I don’t belong here
Is this even my bed?