"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence..."
I remember when I was so young that I never saw a thing, even when it wasn't there...
I even remember missing darkness
There was a street that ran alongside the railroad. I used to have to walk it every morning when I was... so small that ages didn't matter, and every day I walked it differant people would be there, usually men, funny men with dirty coats and long uncombed hair.
They used to talk to me, and everyone said I shouldn't listen, but they looked, they listened, they learnt, they knew enough to stimulate, knew enough to tittilate, knew enough to sow a seed of...
And now?
Now those mornings are gone, the road isn't even there no more, some fine new condos instead of goods yards, but their spirits live, the men...
You ever lived near the railroad?
I swear the whistle of the train is an illusion, there's ghosts, real ghosts, in the night air, and when they hear the train coming, they hide their screams behind it's whistle, hoping no one will hear their agony, their pain, but I remember hearing it. I remember feeling the cold chill as they touched me, shook me in my bed, as the train whistled by, calling to me
'wake up
wake up
the world is calling
the world is calling'
and then they'd cry in pain, like a warning, saying
'If you stay
you'll regret
everything
already set
time to walk
or stop for pain
time to walk
forget the rain'
When I remember that old street, that old railroad, I never know how to feel, being small was...
interesting...
Suggestions for the morning flightpath of a butterfly?
You dream of empty days on a highway
floating
cruising
going nowhere
but...
how many heartbeats
and dreams do you think it costs?
Flatline desert
Comatosed
between the bright light
and dark night
gang of angels
dressed as crows
a murder by the highway
will they start to fly
my way
sunkissed madness
and for every mile that's walked
a thousand more are travelled
internally
fraternity
of internal screamers
Ever kissed the sky at night
and felt it's cool breath against your mind
like an empty whisper
hollow of hope?
All who cry
travel on that breeze
What is it that screams at us
when we are waking
what is it that pins us to the day?
Does anything mean anything?
glass slipper kissed the mind
of holy fuck
and hear me blind
with every sound
within a whisper
ticking of an iron bell
or is a belle
a bon voyage
of maiden flights
and ghostly nights
of slipped inside a circle
going somewhere
and how many ways are freeways
even if the sign points north
and carries on for never
or ever
turning on the plate
of open comfort
and all that can be said
is mother are you watching
can you hear me?
Some say it started in a desert, along a highway, watched by a murder of crows. I say it started forever ago in an ocean, with a dream, but we all have our starts, do we have ends?
