It's the end
Turning gears
and engines are burned
How can I dream?
Valor you have, to
stand in front of me.

I scream,
you're in the valley,
almost out of spite.
I can live in the sink.
It's cold, and the droplets
of water hit my forehead.

And when the snow sticks,
the water, ice, crack the empty thoughts.
In the middle my cranium.
Making space in
this place to play.

Your valley is lonely,
but the air surrounding you.
The mist and fog.  
In fields of ***** gold.
The sun kisses you
as it sleeps early.

It ate me,
and I gauge my eyes.
My presence is minute,
and at fault
the droplets are insignificant
to what perjurer turned to be.

oblivious to my words
your sleep is the same
and on days the fields aren't ***** gold,
You prance around.

Stick around your mouth.
Trails of aroma smolder you hair.
Not tangled, and not fixed.

Who do you know,
back that carries trees
and maybe the history.

Blackmail, slick
slippery goon,
who stalked her moon.

Strange days, those
I found out,
that followed gaze of  
psychedelic rock was not
an excuse to follow.

Stanger is the fool,
the danger,
going home paranoid
what a lovely smell,
dammed.

If an age to indulge is a santifictation
then what prohibits the love for war
the children that cry in the hands
of those with lack of affection
What is the difference of a man who starves and
the ego of one who fasts
the taste of

No, I gave up.
Concept that I cant swallow
Because it swallows me.
Like the time I'd ask for
Things and the answer was
To think older.

Now, I still think the same.
A child who cant fend for themselves,
or
Speak in manner,
or
Right
or
Securely attached to the
Rope of ideas and hopes.

When the music
Is over and the repeating
Screeching sound of
The needle on the record I
Ask,
"Selfish to ask
for it to stop?"

Thorns are stuck onto
My foot as I walk.
And I am a forest
and I am the fire.

Lack of oxygen on a Tuesday afternoon, still forest burns.