lespapillons

today the sun has tumbled down over the hills to a silent dawn tomorrow the day will be as long the world is too far gone sometimes I feel like a new round moon round and bald and upon the sea a precious sinking part of me the world is too far gone stars don't wheel, boys don't squeal never, ever walk alone when the night creeps in on tippy toes when the sun has tumbled down sometimes people lie alone on a bed or on a throne cold and grey and sweating soft tomorrow the day will be as long if this is the sea then I am the moon the burning lights call out to me I will walk then walk no more over the hills to a silent dawn at the end I will

Where I live the hills are filled With houses painted, freshly standing, Cool and quiet, windows chilled, Glassy eyes, demure, commanding; When passersby pause and stare, The hills look back with silver eyes, And reinstate their limpid dare Until decayed to their demise. But on mornings few and seldom seen The hills shed silver as down floods gold From fiery furnace in the sky, a stream To thaw, to sand, to mold These glassy spheres for catching light; Blinded not by dark, for once by sight.

A dead rose is lovelier than one live, With flowing sap and guarded thorns. For no rose wild knew loving eyes, Nor hands which plucked its fragrant crown. A dead rose has been killed and hung, Or pressed between beloved tomes. Petals wither into withered lungs, Fragrance stales as in age-old tombs. A memory preserved of times gone by, A dead rose is lovelier than one live.

What can we say to her slipping between trees so she will not turn and run? Will we half turn our heads like half moons and pretend to stare into infinity or until the highway chokes to rendered line and us, with eyes following like moons until we rise, rise and float over the horizon hoping for invisibility, insignificant as balloons to float and look, look and float in secrecy at dappled beauty with no need for highways no need for lines except crisscrosses of sunshine which are the shadows of whispering trees even as we try to hide behind moonrise and turn shyly into quiet observant lines the dappled hoof, head, moon, eyes, t

Inspiration comes not in flashes; Whoever said that was dead wrong. He's probably sitting in his own ashes, Wishing the years were less long. That poor man's stuck by his own prong. Whoever coined "inspirational spark" Never wrote a word in his life. Inspiration, you tricky lark, You're nothing but purest strife. The honest truth will now suffice. Anyone who's ever written a word Knows the man and knows his lies. Inspiration is false, just absurd. Writing is writing the next reprise Before your brain turns into turd.