Today I asked for death, following incidents of maddening proportion,
and they gave me disease on the rocks.
Little starlit laughter bouncing between realities
where stick-figure men come to full color
on a pallet painted cobweb of intricate thought.
All the work of late dripping bourbon rain
the scent of vodka staining my dreams
a masochist in merit alone,
finding the paralytic insects crawling from my pen
and introduced to the brain stem as means of our old religion
bow your head, and once may be saved.
Indeed, like school children adrift in sleep
with eyes closed against the keys
found the antithesis of our strife.
When upon we wake, cryptic messages begin to sense our soul
and through us the gods speak
with the roused blood of anarchy.
Cry, dear savage,
upon the page decorates in very plain
language for all to see
that tis' not a message, but only a plea.
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In the towers that peer over the dreamscape
a land of rainy days and rainbows
small laughter carrying on the breeze,
dodging drops so we may have a song to dance to.
Hand in hand, another holding you close
our feet begin to the worldly beat
smearing bright paints onto an easel of grey
a whispering into the torrent of sounds around us
a love-painted epiphany dwelling in a starry eternity.
And thus, with the laughter on the breeze,
you and I would be set free
religated to a new day ahead,
and with many words left unsaid, we would guess...
reaching our hands together into the darkest night
to pull stars 'cross the skies and light a heart again.
© Nick Rice 2009