Tattered roses, petals scattered,
awaiting your blessed kiss.
Banana splits served up to you and me
from dish of an old Victrola.
I, because ashes take as much light as you give,
and I have been prepared to cross the line,
And I am all the while my ear to the ground.
Tempestuousness transforms torn ears to stone,
How high the holy deafness?!
How high the holy temple?!
And I filled the sky with flames, the mighty fine Mockingbird face,
And for a spell it was miracles amuck.
Cast aside this rusty thought, for Crimenie's sake,
There must be SOME dovetail conjoining my psychic compass's needle
To the East of your Being, alas, just to your soul!
Allah Peanut Butter Sandwiches!!
Mystic Mountain, I have worshipped my dreams to death,
And this old acoustic-smith supporter moans
over memories of blueprints
long ago changed to ash,
scattered on liberty's shakin' breeze.
Laugh at the maw of nothingness,
and if my love to ye all, here,
be so undeserved,
then I commit my soul to a Lord
that lives away,
and I pray to the preacher Himself,
enthroned or no.
And what of it.
Roses kiss ash in salty seas until tears bless castles burning.
Take my hand, sister, and shout with me:
Is there really any comfort there, Senor?
Keep the faith, don't let it bring you down.
I know the hearts that are battered and blistered.
Honeystar you are, Mountain,
whether or not crossed at my sky.
Peace in the rock.
(SCA/09-08-2003)
