by Jon Pelletier

Created on: December 31, 2008

Some times life is slowly ticking forward
Broke like the hands on an old pocket watch
Left for eons to the man three generations down

These times life is borrowed and licked towards
Smoke like the man with an old frequent lock
Best to be left to the makers simply drawn sounds

We write when we laugh to the time locked forward
Smoke like the band that left us here in a knot
With three thousand miles we have lost a friend

Drastic dreams that are crafted like a notion of sorrow
The pages turn as we run with a sacred book caught
In the life before we drop it passing a corner round

Wondering hermits finding the last of the torn pages
Wanderlust for the rest to pick up the pieces
The breast plate a metallic shade for us as sounds

Lessons taking from what a grand magnet decides
The term stolen and to the want not to have some
The pages with everything seem lost between the trees

I have already sent the letter, sir
I cannot change the whims of the worlds
I truly wish I could learn to speak for them
I cannot change the whims of the worlds

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