Those (Beckoning) Lights

The understanding we made was neatly wrapped up in its own 

blue tissue cocoon like a neatly rolled joint and dumped

unceremoniously into the forgotten past like a plate of leftover

digitized lies. The lid was slammed shut. Time passes too tightly. And you

find yourself a prisoner inside your newly broken body, walking

along inside a lonely road's ditches like a lost animal, again and again. There are the same soft houses you remember.

There are those beckoning lights you still recall willing you home. But you have only the

billion stars, and they burn off by break of day and you

walk in the shadow of the sun to cool off. You glint like a knife. You

blink. You flash. It's a field of eternal longing scattering off before you. Why

do you have to know so much about always being left

alone? Nothing's ever going to save us from the arc of being.

We are beautiful in our doomed rooms, but it doesn't

really matter. They will dance without our names on their

swaying sideways and hissing chanting lips. They'll destroy the hidden garden's rough 

beauty in the name of the great goddess of fear, like always.

Oh and if there is a greater love it has no

friendship for the living. You'll find no pity in its

deepened and blackly drilled out eyes. But you'll hear the faraway laughter of

its lovely parade, like a quiet bright rain, that beckons

and doesn't soak, but relieves every imagined wound with a

freshly laundered air through clouds. So breathe it in, deeply while you

still can, hug another human being. I don't mean to

be that snide, but the time is coming when you

will sink and swirl in so many bitter tears that

you will never touch the sweet earth again so innocently. They

are not sorry that you hurt. They only want to

feel their own brand on your skin at all times. It's not like they said

it would be at the beginning. We can only write it

down without lying to our own dancing lives so many times, and then leave it alone, but still there're so many jerks 

to fight off in the choking bathrooms. They only want everything. Nothing else will

do. That is our war. That is why the sad

faces turn away from us and weep along with strange willows. They are ringing like

living bells. Perhaps on that strung hope that we can possibly feel

something deeper than the hum of our machines being consumed

by other cold hearted machines. I only wanted to hold you. That

is not a sin, no matter what they say in church. It

is a fabulous miracle of sorts. It is a guitar solo in a bat's ear, done with some

real flare. It's the more we've always heard them talking about in our crackling on the fire dreams. It is always the same plan.

I've got to get going now. Remember me. Dream the life.Dream it well, for all of us who are here waking before you.