I hate to see you like this, forlorn and not quite forgotten
but not quite remembered either, at least for the right reasons
always holding onto those fleshy hands, that dream from long ago
traveling within the confines of your blood, your fire deep in the sky
Dear Érase Una Vez:
We cannot wait any longer. The sound may be far off but will arrive anyway at any moment. We have to press on, we have to push through, we have to get up and burn, burn, burn along with all the people we've lost along the way. There is a place, a moment, an instant, a flash of distinction, a spark of recognition, a sound that shakes the ground beneath the future and an idea that turns our footprints into words, our path into a story, our end into another beginning. We will not rest for we are the wicked of yore come forth to burst through the clouds and rain on your eyes, on your face, on your wants, washing each and every moment of truth into a string that vibrates through the many times we ended thinking about it and decided to do nothing about it.
I hate to see you like this, all backaches and heart tremors, that unstoppable ringing in the new years lined up like the endless mistakes we indulged in when we knew we weren't getting away that easily. Might as well sink into our empty spaces and dedicate our passage to the end of the road and the beginning of the ocean, our vast deep ocean drowning our screams of pleasure and concealing that elusive point where it all comes back to again and again.