| . | Decadent Dreamscape 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. ©All text is copyrighted and may be reproduced only with the express permission of the artist, all profits from reprint, transmission, etc., are the property of the author. Thank you.... |