Descendants Of These Dreams...

These dreams do not come from man
Man is the descendant of these dreams

Near the beginning
dreams gave birth to clouds
that wept upon the abyss below
until the earth could grow there
and dreamers would be born
to dream the eternal dreams
and offer up laughter and tears
so that clouds could raise these back
for the dreams to then receive them
and use the laughter to power the sun
and the tears to fill clouds with rain again
in the way these ancient dreams devised
to nourish more than dream and dreamer

These dreams do not come from man
Man is the descendant of these dreams

There is no question as to
the origins of chicken or egg
For roosters only cock-a-doodle-doo
as such curious omelets are served-up
to be devoured or left to waste
only some time after our dreams
have brought us to breakfast

These dreams do not come from man
Man is the descendant of these dreams

Old dreams so light when they were born
-as light as lightest breeze in gentlest sky
fall under the weight of dreamless tears
and are cast into the restless earthly dust
that covers-over them with sands of time
as the earth becomes their tomb
and life is wilted by their death
as reality becomes their after life-hell
with no dreamer to dream them back
as skies grow far too dense and heavy
for dreams to ascend their way beyond
or man to remain upright beneath them

Such dreams do not come from man
Man descends from these dreams

It is through our minds that
dreams perceive themselves
This universe cannot be perceived
and we never really realize our selves
We only ever dream that we do
   or rather,
our dreams imagine us
to do so

These dreams do not come from man
Man is the descendant of these dreams

So let us not be weighed down
by our own earthly dust and tears
Let us be made light
and easily carried away by dreams
so that they too might be lifted up
For dreams do not come from man
Man is the descendant of these dreams
and thus cannot ascend beyond them

Saddle-Up The Tumbleweed...

Watch the wind in all it blows
Moving all toward... (no one knows)
The whole wide world is tossed around
as tumbleweeds glide over ground
like whispers dancing past all sound

I wish I'd learned to saddle-up
the tumbleweeds and giddy-up
then these winds that toss me 'round
to places I'm more lost than found
would not determine destinations
but propel with newfound fascinations
For then upon these gusts of time
I'd float like reason upon rhyme

See the wind in all it moves
Watch tumbleweeds no force reproves
Dream of days I'd move like them
and vindicate what force condemns
like spitting spite from futile-phlegm

...and now that winds blow hard again
I'm anchored waiting for some when
When no more binds me where I've been
A when like now, but more aware
and filled with weightlessness of dare
to bravely gaze, not stagnant stare

So saddle-up the tumbleweed
and ride the winds that set things free
in ways without whips cracked on steed
Yes! Saddle-Up The Tumbleweed
while weights upon us have no need
to strand us where wind disagreed
and surges against what we'd concede
Go Saddle-Up The Tumbleweed
to ride upon what fate accedes
and dance as all of time proceeds

Not A Will To Death...

This is not the will to death
No drive of carbon to purge breath
Just exhausted impatience & infatuation
with the peculiar foreign notion
of an easier way out
of a life tired from ceaselessly searching
for some elusive thing to be about

As devils ever scheme and scream
the angels remain reticent in dream

These voices scream of what to do
in platitudes of "do or die" or "follow through"
They convince of things to long to do,
and to pave the way for things moved unto,
but reach new dead-ends and nothing new

Then same voices whisper
"why bother", "nothing matters", "what's it to you"
'till all sounds stranded despite the tune you choose
and no destination offers no things to prove
leaving a yearning to yearn
for some distant point toward which to move
All will then turns against its self within
making what's lost in life look toward death to win

As devils ever scream and scheme
the angels remain reticent in dream

Few stranded souls shall seek some silence
which can't be heard amid screaming violence
For who can wait for angels to murmur
prayers for things there are no words for
or wait for devils to blow their voice out
screaming "more" forever more
Fewer still find the sacraments of solitude
and leave behind black-art rituals of oblivion's mood

As devils ever scream and scheme
angels still remain reticent in dream

No. This is not the will to death
Just a need to take some deeper breath
and leave the shadow-seeking path
which darkly leads to failure's wrath
adding each triumphant step to its aftermath

No. "This is not the will to death"
I say and take another breath
Just exhausted impatience & infatuation
with the peculiar foreign notion
of an easier way out
of life tired from ceaselessly searching
for some elusive thing to be about

I'd Rather Not Say...

The words I've keep unspoken
and have refused to write remain
Such words ask far too much of me
and might prove to prove me insane

Ask of me these words
in questions quite the same
And I may say "No comment"
or more precisely "I'd rather not say"
Though such questioning words
provoke me
to provide my tongue and all ears
their claim
For silence is the voice of death
that all life must keep at bay

These words trapped scream inside me
tortured, neglected, and in decay
for they (as all things) perish in silence
but their affliction within me stays
as echoes never to be disposed of
haunting and infecting the words I've left to say

but the written word...
It is the strangest of all things
For its silence echoes eternal
in a way death's silence can't contain
Still as ancient corpses
yet resounding unlike any old remains

Yes. The written word Is dead
but it's a living form of death
For when no more words unspoken,
inscribed, nor carved remain...
What life? What death? might there be
Dare I imagine to make some claim?
perhaps both then as now what's best
I'd rather not say