I golden-caged all my blackbirds. These days I’m aging backwards and I don't mix up may and june. The heavy violins have expired, my pen is drowsy and I’m tired of measuring life with coffee spoons.
My hours are wasted. I’m a naked model killing time as they set up a summer screen. The ink in my heart’s getting drained, waves dance around like boiling paint while I just stand around and dream dreams whose seeds may never grow. A kind of tears I’ll never know. A hell from which I won’t be saved. They’ll spit into my pot of gold, parade my soul until it’s (c)old then throw it in an unmarked grave.
My thoughts wander to the borders. Stars pile up in the corners to shoot across the sky. But I only see them limp, and I watch as their light drips. I pull out my tongue but it stays dry. And when I strum this guitar, am I puking in the stars or offering emeralds to a pig? Now my eyes bear the burden of always being framed with curtains. I should have never dreamt this big.