The wind changed, and rocks floated to the sky,
Lucidity of the waking hours.
Blackened with absinthe and old thoughts dry,
In ivory shell, bathing in putrid flowers.
The joy of stale forgotten memories,
All stolen in the night whilst you slumbered.
They tear holes throughout the many centuries,
Calmness, but your celibate wishes numbered.
I hear lights and see sound, and I recoil,
Plastic flesh adorns, drapes my fellow man,
Bodies entangled by cold fire uncoil,
Scared by man who feared not as it began.
And it rains, flows, down the grimy gutter,
To the mouth of a child and his actors,
Not a free rhyme, and yet he stills utters,
As the moon dances for all that matters.
