by AmericanBoy

Created on: March 29, 2010

Will to change, but lack the boil of blood

that sets the clay aside from the soul that yearns to live.

Ash calls ash to re-gather itself, reform, revive,

no longer disconnected from the purpose for which it was planted.

Float like feather upon the sour breath of change

blown from the the sneeze of Father Times ruthless red nose.

Hear me not, touch me not

with plastic gloves and polyester sports jackets

green hair and black stockings

sharp fanged teeth suck the nectar of past purpose

with no fresh vein of its own.

Neon signs, aimless rhymes, rusted dimes, desperate times

echoes of the disenchanted

empty dwellings of a blank generation.

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