Must be a thousand frozen things
from which the river springs.
Now there’s a hundred falling boulders.
But it’s not over.
We may have spent our years in clover fields,
but we just found out it wasn’t real.
It was a symptom of misplaced frustration
in a secretly afraid nation.
We traded in our dignity, that was the deal.
So we could forage in a blind manner.
Me, I’ll keep track of everything I feel
and record it in an orange planner.
My heart is building a sandcastle,
my mind an office block.
Spirit’s abandoning the battle,
soul is fleeing from the flock.
And that is when I’m able
to realize who I am.
I was born into a fable
and then drove off in a van.
Sea waves are washing away
everything we know today.
And what we would never ever want
seems to be flowing from an eternal font.
Not to speak of what we love,
and what we still think fondly of.
They’re disappearing at a rapid pace.
It’s a fact that I don’t want to face.
And I’m not normally an alarmist,
but I wear no arm-band of normality.
And I can hear waves crashing down on the forest,
washing the seeds back to the sea.
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