Dizzying spins and cut throat needs, instants, mines, eyes on the sighs with roller coaster eyes which hint of surprise on your way to the prize. Back flips and flops, the fun never stops, and you'll lay in bed, stuck in your head, and if you cannot breathe then you'll end up dead. Or worse. Empty. Sitting alone, above the blankets, while The Devil knows what, but that ain't The End, my imaginary friend. Wine and cigarettes won't go away, and maybe that's Art, though the voices will tell you otherwise. Fingers on the neck, Soul free, more vision than they know, you can stretch out across the dream and that light at the end of the tunnel, all it is is The Truth. Why flee from that? Stronger, safer, than you have ever been, the scratches and screams only serve to bleed out what needs bleeding, you're speeding now, not needing now, just wry and knowing, wise in showing the Gold, no longer lost in old, bold, blue or told what is not, now Hope is shot, more likely than not, though a man can yet spot, beyond the arrows he's got.
I forget that sometimes.
Time to start firing again.
Time to coil before Spring springs.
I am Space now, there is no denying.
All lifelines cut I am A Drift.
I no longer want to know
What People Do.
It's never pretty.
I know that much.
But I am almost there