It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else
There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
I cannot tell you that I want to be intoxicated, inebriated, and stashed away for the rest of eternity while holding your hand at the mediocre fair in the middle of the crowd of ill-mannered school-children who grew up too soon
It said, 'You've brought a return ticket with you friend / Remember, people are not meant to be held onto.'
It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else
There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
I cannot tell you that I want to be intoxicated, inebriated, and stashed away for the rest of eternity while holding your hand at the mediocre fair in the middle of the crowd of ill-mannered school-children who grew up too soon
It said, 'You've brought a return ticket with you friend / Remember, people are not meant to be held onto.'
The mind craves to fly far away. / In the guise of a beggar, eyes wet with tears
The moon is a cheeseball, Cratered, yellow, and huge like your eyeballs
