synchronize the psychosis that dabbles down through our burning crowns, melting behind our liquid eyes
gathered in our quicksilver souls
we shake the morning blues from our snooze & decide upon which face must be worn in presuming this war
the telecaster booms in announcements of predicted fact
has us know the weather to come
wind blown with clouds of swirling doom, plays the track
for visions may be skewed & the croon is all there is left to consume from the duty of the left handed pocketful floozy whom rooted up our brothers & sisters
to smother their homes & destroy all they know
only to trade for another something to trade to trade & trade this unfair wage of plight & lust that does heavily disguise this high & mighty illusion of life
"Don't listen to your feelings for they are all wrong!" cries the desperate psychiatrist as they lift a pen to scroungingly scribble endless prescriptions of pills
that feed our cells with chemicals to kill
you never ever really realized
the quest only set foot to find fruitful love
dancing free in the grassy fields
tickling the sweet petals of the daisies that call
calling you back to your senses of five
you blink & stare kindly at the stranger from afar
wondering whether or not you have already met him at the downtown dive bar
& with that you suspect you shall meet him again
for like-minded people come close in corners of dim
& mountains of sun,
of streets in gray, & lakes of green,
in houses of past damage never quite fixed
even as serene as the scene may seem
stepping back & raising the sweating glass to my lips
I take one sip, swallowing heavy, to breathe out my struggle
for where do I sit in the middle of all this terrible trouble?