for flowers, I leave to them all the potash
for the air, I was only a borrowed breath
for the sun, I was a witness to the warmth and light
and for the darkness, I remember
oh what was mine when I believed possession
and who was I to need permission
a tick in the grass waiting for a hair to latch
it was all just a ride, though I drink blood
though I swell and then unswell
the waves come in and go out
even the ocean one day will still
and then to be shadows dancing with a background
should there be an audience to watch
they may create stories of god or gods, godesses or sylph
"who of us can dwell with a consuming fire?"
"who of us can dwell with everlasting flames?"
if in an image we were created, that image being an all consuming fire
what then is the significance to a name,
but what more, without the significance of desire?
all watches stop, things that once convolved, will too
until you empty all the canvas, can you see what is true
oh I am blind eyed to the answer, for I am slinging paint
and from something I call imagination
propose, what is or isn't or ought to be or ain't
to be the who heard by some horton
on a dandelion tuft
life is all in whatever is living
and living is quite abrupt
and though no comfort is there to have or give
and it may never be enough, or needed
whether sifting ashes through your hands
or watching embers fade
there is little that is truly tragic
except how the game is played
and this is all speculation, because rules only have their day
and Sinatra was quite well plagiarizing
I did it my way
maybe it is not answers we have ever needed
or some idea so keen
perhaps the best things necessary
is just more gasoline..................................................
