I stay, a millenia away (again),
for the inside isn't a question,
face to face with an alien.
Why are you crying,
is a question, laid as a landmine,
only for the nosy.
Not even a mother's hug could hold me.
I strap packs to backs,
humming half way raps,
as the metro spills it's guts.
As such, I garnish these truths with a sort of sense,
which is a sort of sauce,
which my gourmet intent, invents...
and slathers as acrylic,
across a vivid, canvas atlas,
I'm thinking empiric, alas.
For the only time, I'm, allowed to sit still,
is in class, I bust ass, to savour the red pill.
The end is coming, so I guess it's mean time,
red wine, dull shine, plucked from pure vines,
that can only reach for the sun.
Its a matter of purpose,
so as a hot shower with no heat,
I bathe and remain nervous,
that the cold is coming
and the frost bites for keeps,
making the blanket to a shield,
that provides respite for sleep.
To dream of architecture,
for the pencil to plot,
to scribe the cathartic texture,
of taking that one shot.
Is toothpicked eyelids of a glance that refuses,
the only time I find comfort,
is in a muse's amusement.
The home I've never known,
is the chase of my next plane ticket,
I forget more places than the bourgeois will ever visit.
A better day is my perfect job,
I confide to the shrink,
Sickle handed on the horizon,
smiling naked on the brink.
That our ancestors knelt,
so we can stand on their shoulders,
to seduce with the sounds,
that sways safe the cobra.
I will call it as it really is,
and never question my Master,
as if I'm not really His,
as if I'm not where it is,
reared from where it lives.
I'm a dreamer with skills,
that makes it realistic,
and the reason why I can kick it,
is simply cause the shoe fits.