I am 10 years old.
And I see things how they are,
Now.
Salty seas of pride, swallowed
Still sleepy waters, my reverie
Most of the nights, unless the indefinite he
is there to comfort me.
All the offers I have on the table,
Extractions of hope, a sweet jelly
Various soda-can stories
Seen, as they slide right off.
And who knows or fathoms,
what would have happened.
Of course, that fizz is gone.
Now I've only got my own
Sun-dried force I seem to leave alone.
I am 16 years old.
And I see things how they were,
Then.
All the things I've got to think about
Red, black, or, blue hair, maybe fair
High-heeled or strung out, on you
Well I wonder how they got here, what they missed
What kindred thing, what innocence, dwindles
Running in their heavy, highway daydreamed myth
left just beyond the cornerstone, behind yesterday.
Dreams attached to afternoon naps, caressed by Friday's freedom lullaby
The sagged skeletons that hid, hung in old Saturday's closet,
and Sunday morning's mother's kiss, awake, good day, goodnight.
Six years, the art of knowing, that some girls wander
In what symmetry, end, beginning, there is
on yonder.
Seen, as they slide right off.
And who knows or fathoms,
what would have happened.
Of course, that fizz is gone.
Now I've only got my own
Sun-dried force I seem to leave alone.
I am 16 years old.
And I see things how they were,
Then.
All the things I've got to think about
Red, black, or, blue hair, maybe fair
High-heeled or strung out, on you
Well I wonder how they got here, what they missed
What kindred thing, what innocence, dwindles
Running in their heavy, highway daydreamed myth
left just beyond the cornerstone, behind yesterday.
Dreams attached to afternoon naps, caressed by Friday's freedom lullaby
The sagged skeletons that hid, hung in old Saturday's closet,
and Sunday morning's mother's kiss, awake, good day, goodnight.
Six years, the art of knowing, that some girls wander
In what symmetry, end, beginning, there is
on yonder.
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