Friday, April 30, 2010

April is the cruellest month,

breeding restless souls too eager for what winter could not offer.

Sugared dreams all morphed into splintered ropes. We didn't expect it-
it hit us hard, like those great typhoons that wash islands onto shores of continents.

So we swam. As fast as we could, or else they'd catch us and brainwash us all over again.
We had to get away,
get away,
get away
lest it be too late.

There is still time, my friends. The Nile River does not drain so quickly.
Let's lay down our swords, put down the oars.
Some things are worth fighting for, but some things no more.

Maybe it's time to take our lives, and wrap them, zip them,
bind them up with strings of resignation
and ship them downstream on a big, black ferry to fate's floating hands.

We'll sing much of the night, and drift west in the fall.


Write me a song.