a thought

by Face Plants Jr.

Posted to Poetry on 2003-08-20 19:53:00


where for, I have come with a suitcase
full of strange suveniours from the
cosmic storm,
it does me no good to debate
eternity with fledglings.
I love them too much.

Perhaps good is not what it may be
still, as a tree grows
right on top of your thousand graves
pulling always towards
vast muscle of sky
it will be enough to hold up
my tired branches
and let time peal
my pedals down.

we age too quickly,
or not quick enough
it is the same to this end,
synapses all tangled
a huge figure eight.

please children,
live above the ground,
love the wind,
that it may scatter the feathers
of your wings
and never know the pain
of flying.