A beaten brow
Raised atop a rooftop
Drums a slow decay
It softly slips away
And away
Insulting little feather downs
Plucked and brazen
From a trailing vine now
From a trailing vine now
Caught by masters of war to pound
There are little hands
That touch the muted swan’s song
Three brass buttons slipping to shimmer
Too full to fly out
Seeping inside a silent cry
But hushed and keen and hollow
Where outside armouries are packed
Motes lift along a wet crackle
Little radio hath come to life
Turning past the point of static
Pushed by the wind
Pushed by the wind
To tune in is not listening
Choose to move to the absolute
Choose to move to the absolute
Tall reeds and glasses raised
belie a lotus flower
its roots plunge turning low
and if unless it is let go
that is ever to be picked
and clinked again
then again risen
and to try not to again because
follow not I
Where worthless folly
In striking at everything
creates nothing
but emptiness
What can be forgotten
Feels like losing touch
The shadows melt together
Our fingers have gently caressed
God's weathered face
He slaps it away.
What did you expect?
That's our lot.
What can be forgotten
Feels like losing touch
The shadows melt together
Our fingers have gently caressed
God's weathered face
He slaps it away.
What did you expect?
That's our lot.
The tip of this triangle
Folding forever
But to be settled
Where it started.
Where it started.
Roaring dust where it belongs
This battle lines the lungs
Grit falling in time with thy breast
To turn over again