these people that are now a crowd,
these people that have screamed aloud,
their sorrow hides behind their frown,
their stories i shall pen them down.

To a bird

in the streets that we have bought
i have seen you lost in thought
in the plains of grief and naught
i have seen you walking.

and upwards you had hitched in lifts
and downwards i have moved in shifts
and never have we paused for gifts
nor water nor conversing.

and i have seen your inner world
and i have seen your sighs unfurl
in fits and screams they swirl and swirl
without rhyme or reason.

and as i drift on further down
through our moon's dressing gown
there is no tear nor grief nor frown
only quiet acceptance.

and as you circle up in time
through fields of forest smoke sublime
most definitely in your prime
too soon you reach the sun

and when you touch the fireball
one day baby you have to fall
and spiral down where angels call
to you in dreamy murmurs.

so do not breathe another sigh
for in my dream you learn to fly
and in my dream you never die
this dream that spirals downwards.

and in the streets that we have bought
where we have drifted lost in thought
where the city groans in grief and naught
existence has no meaning.

how long has it been?
how long, through these filthy semen streets
have i been walking?

these things on the wall

these things on the wall who are forever in yearning
these things on the wall who will forever be sleeping
they stand for no man and they stand for no minstrel
and they are standing no longer but are hiding in mirrors
these things on the wall they have reflected my reverie
they surround you with hunger till you cry out a memory
and every waking morning they will feed on my conscience
and they follow me in subtleties till i end up going nowhere
and they wait for me in numbers and are guided by shepherds
and they dance around their campfire and lather in their alcohol
and none have ever lingered for more than a moment
and none will ever linger for the rest of this evening
and there will be no one to come follow me tomorrow
and one cannot fathom the weight of their sorrow
but soon it shall pass and soon shall be forgotten
and i will never look back over my shoulder
these things on the wall they are waiting for morning
these things on the wall they have truly been learning
and they have leapt on the trees but not on the mountains
and they are leaping over rivers and riding the oceans
these things on the wall, they are not breathing
these things on the wall, where are their shadows?
these things on the wall, where are their shadows?

My motives are lost in repetitive thought.