It is just a flyby, firelight knife fight for your soul.
Act calm, lay low, and talk slow.
You never know who is watching.
There is portlights sitting up in the starlight.
I can't tell the difference.
Listen to the sound of your head thump.
Like an angry trumpet's scream.
Panama bought off on a daily basis.
Giants work their oil veins.
Screen their bone hulls.
Algae covered boots and the smell of money.
Moved east, moved west, endless shiplines and fortunes to be made.
Quiet the raging seas for the rare.
Just remember what we had.
When there was something left to save.
California, the warm bee garden it is.
The Bible Belt is freezing.
North don't know the difference.
And the pull the rope game progresses endlessly.
Across the shapeless black seas.
Aired above the mountains, white.
If only, if only,
I could see the pale starlight.
Thinking about the essence of life.
Filled with heartache and strife.
Shapeless as a cloud.
Hungry as the spring bear.
And hopeful as the dragonfly.
1 day to live.
1 to fly.
Unseen mountains sheathed by dark gray and flurries.
In the white January winter.
Only color past.
Blankets of dirt underneath blankets of white.
No dogs are barking.
With our masks we give the expression of clouded silhouettes.
The air pushes east.
Gears shove and grind.
Quiet restlessness stains the roadways.
Purple sunlight shifts west,
endless, dayless, west.
The heatlines push up,
and the great circle steams above the bare white.