Singing to trees made in a sleepless dream,as they shoot their roots through the mouth of misery.A twisted river that waters the fruitless trees,that feed only the tormented and tragic.
Even if the truth is quite differnt from a platitude,swimming lazily through empty drifts,of ordinary conversations,that I hear with the borrowed ear of a cynic.
Smile for the reason that produced it. Not for fear of failure in the tribe. Fear not the beast that gave birth to children reeking of opulence and entitlement.
A poem I wrote a few years back...during a period of no sleep.
I'm running on empty.