if the grass could take flight, hitch up its roots, and speak with the stars
what remarks would they exchange
how the stars yet long for to be entrapped by earth
yet the grass stretches to be liberated from the very same –
which it has ensnared itself in
there comes a funeral for the dreams of both parties
but never in strangest extremity does come a tune as sweet
as that of the first lullaby
of each

when We feel our mother’s lap has failed us
and it crumbles crying into clay
We build a tower of babel
to keep ourselves away
We ignite ourselves and leap and climb to get to higher ground
but no matter our impressive altitude
ground will be ground
when our cloud dreams dim
and eyes begin to see that in this planetarium show
dreams masquerade as real when they are projected onto the
void, the blank canvas We have made
for them

By the time We want to leave
our tickets have expired