On a desert hill, thick with aged sand
Tarnished with musty tears,
I hear the purple mourning ghost
of Jim Morrison laugh...
as he sips hard on cheap bourbon
poured by wicked angels.
He comes in and reads my thoughts
He would cry...
But tears only burn down
all this childhood decadence
leaves it melting into
Lurid sand that reeks...
of sour milk and rotten cookies that
all the mother with no bones in their backs
or white in their smiles
left behind when they set out to find
the frayed remains of their lost minds.
Butterflies that whisper poetry
penned by the hands of madmen
and Anne Sexton too...
tease and torment my sound.
Mirages of tomorrows
still left unbroken in their boxes,
when reached flames of over grown
laughter consume them in their entirety.
A moonlight Sonata comes fast
to kidnap the night away
from all the delicate dreams
but Steel men clad in denim and dirt
wrestle the notes to the ground.
Beethoven is no match for collars that are rusted blue.
Sleep comes on a painted hill
where the sand crawls over itself
like doodle bugs lost in a circle.
Sleep of the tormented has no rest on it.
Through shattered eyes of dreamscapes
Old women come and relive
they days of what they pretended
to be somehow glorious.
Children who speak in the voices
of juicy fruit and coca cola,
make fun and whoop and holler
with great glee at their expense.
As heat from an over zealous sun
bakes the paleness of my flesh.
I rise from vile sleep....
continue on this pilgrimage of taxing hope.
Trudging on....in need of a miracle
in clothes that don't fit my mind
and through a world
that doesn't know my name.
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