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When you sleep... |
Words are being thrown around By those sleeping, unaware, who Talking as if they know; That in the words their ideas live. Compatriots Reaching understandings; words are understood. Compatriots in Surviving idiocy Compatriots whose Thoughts hazed, lie with clarity You breathe for those without breath. Words hollow and old Barked in grey and surrounded with leaves brown and red Trees that breathed and filled the world's lungs They breathe no more Compatriots Breathing rotten breath into the dead Stories made from words Meanings not making sense Light illuminating names carved in wood (words now people and their forms) Spills onto the faces who try and draw sap, now dust, Across an apparent forever, the termite eggs and half-digested cellulose Leak out of pecker-holes, react with the air; Print on paper, in black ink un-smeared. Compatriots Nauseating Form-obsessed fiends It is a struggle to deny the urge to vomit Upon your precious words Upon your shitty feast. When play is done among Nature's wooden graveyard And reasonable minds must rejuvenate and rest; You, compatriots, sleep without the croaking Of dead voices blowing through rotted boughs Compatriots, Your ideas planted in words sprout above your beds When you sleep though Compatriots, The words never were |