post-atavism

Who was there to see me walk out?
Someone who wished me upon my way,
Someone who knew of the dark decay in quiet cocaine
Of the spirit, the aimless traveling down the lines in
The middle of the road amid barren wastelands built
Up with fast food icons, apartment prisons, and contrived
Songs manufactured for public radio, someone who
Knew the quotation of the heart, written in scriptures
Succinctly quixotic in order to keep out the fakers
Of the heart except for its shadows. What friends
Have we ignored?

The ones who gave us cigarettes upon our traveling,
The ones who gave us encouragement when our lives
Were unraveling, the ones who bought us drinks and
Softly clinked their glasses with our tear-stained pints
At life’s discovery, that you are dead in some kind of
Disasterous hurricane called the vortex of the world,
That you began to live when you bought your first
Book on the heights of clouds caught traveling like
Dragon’s breath upon the sky’s gentle karafe of cream
All wound up in your mind’s eye like some gentle
Fragments of a mirrored dream.

And we wonder what true love is, well, sometimes
We don’t notice until its too late like our gentle
Happiness, fleeting only because we made it that way.

People try to help but they are like static on the picture frame,
You don’t always understand them but only their motives,
Like when a man with a fake name called me and asked me
To play the violin. His name was Charles Violet, he bought
Me tickets to the city scene, but some one else was interfering
After they had already lost out on the shape of a tyrant’s seat.

And the secrets have been locked out, the secrets locked within,
All the secrets spilled across the cities gout because they wanted
Me to bleed like a dead violin, well you think this is just egoism,
But it’s more than just belief, well you think this is just selfish,
But my friend, you have to believe. Well, you think they will
Win, but my friend there is no game you can’t rig, and you
Think they are joking, but they are afraid because you always win.

So sing with me again, this quiet song that seems sad if only for
People who have never felt that way, the ones who are too happy,
The ones who visit the graves of their dead relatives with a smile
On their face. And sing with me again, make us become we again,
And sing of our faces that truth shined upon instead of disgrace,
And sing of our battles that end with this play, and sing of our
Laughter that brings the applause of the summer rain.