I can't move forward any further. The weight is to great for a frail frame such as I. This hollow and empty hole that fills me, consumes me, won't let me see through this fog of manifest destiny.
I carefully pick my way through the verities of the passing days, observing how the people swirl in ever changing hues of blue and green before me. Passing by the dark hearts, and purple people in the sea of green, while a few blue and gold will extend a hand, only to have it greased up in some formal joke I was not told about.
This is about enough, it is time to take out the garbage. Time is catching up with us all, it will catch us with our hands tied to the whipping boy. As the carousel girls swirl in their undulating dance of seduction, around the inferno that is the moment of your now. Can you resist their suggestions, their twisted bodies mirrored in the pools of despair. The boy laughs and hands you your head, in case you ever wanted to use it.
Now, now, that's okay, they say, while they slowly slice pieces of your memories for the hors d'oeuvres to be served exactly at three, by plasticine porters who know. I tip my hat to the sullen frat boys on the shore, as Bruce sings lowly in the background at Asbury Park. And what slice do I take, yellow, orange, or black? It doesn't really matter now, as time has slipped the noose and is running loose in the mall hall, with Jean Jeanie and Capt. Jack, who are looking for the Yellow Brook Road, or was it the trail of tears.
Take care and don't get too self assured, as desolation row is only a heart beat away.
I carefully pick my way through the verities of the passing days, observing how the people swirl in ever changing hues of blue and green before me. Passing by the dark hearts, and purple people in the sea of green, while a few blue and gold will extend a hand, only to have it greased up in some formal joke I was not told about.
This is about enough, it is time to take out the garbage. Time is catching up with us all, it will catch us with our hands tied to the whipping boy. As the carousel girls swirl in their undulating dance of seduction, around the inferno that is the moment of your now. Can you resist their suggestions, their twisted bodies mirrored in the pools of despair. The boy laughs and hands you your head, in case you ever wanted to use it.
Now, now, that's okay, they say, while they slowly slice pieces of your memories for the hors d'oeuvres to be served exactly at three, by plasticine porters who know. I tip my hat to the sullen frat boys on the shore, as Bruce sings lowly in the background at Asbury Park. And what slice do I take, yellow, orange, or black? It doesn't really matter now, as time has slipped the noose and is running loose in the mall hall, with Jean Jeanie and Capt. Jack, who are looking for the Yellow Brook Road, or was it the trail of tears.
Take care and don't get too self assured, as desolation row is only a heart beat away.
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