You’re dead already in an american dream where it can shatter like porcelain.
To Shelia, melancholy with dreams of Ramanyana,
Seeing children running, oblivious to your eyes.
Never caring that knowing you by heart is the greatest gift of all.
Flying on nothing, compassionless and alone.
Seeing where the lightning strikes
And guarding against those calling the corners.
A finished symphony takes comfort
Knowing the heart asks pleasure first.
A primitive man looks for the easy way out
His wife smiles, believing there is never an easy way.
She sneezes at pepper but can’t look life in the eye.
Would rose rouge dancing in the sunlight
Be called any other name?
My disillusionment with many things