Catch
me in a bass line, to tip a toe upon clouds, streaming
yesteryear.
It was once such color, bending gray, ten miles
the
nearest gas station. What would give—a soul—sorely
distraught?
I harp, and I harp not, tugging at a yoke. But I
feel
you, angry as hell, and dearly misunderstood. Life is
a
maze, fraught with fear, and deeply alone. We sail a stream,
ever
conscious, certain to love. If not, hell is near, screaming
at
the top of our lungs. Nonetheless, I harp, and I harp not.
I
love you becomes faith, where a future—is paved in cinemas.
Is
this desire, to act and live and die on camera? Indeed, art
is
life, as political as elections, drifting the deepest passions.
We
must fuse a vision, taking classes, singing—scrapes and
bruises.
This is life, a wealth of magic, and cryptic drums. Such
junoesque
eyes, a lucky foot, and a need to live free. I pass
you
dreams in every word, a phoenix at heart.
