• I met her where, the river met the ocean
• She made me swallow, a wicked potion
• Gave me a vision, of faces war painted
• And saw the land before cities were created
•
• Took me captive, and tied me to a tree
• A pretty woman came and cut me free
• She was the daughter, of the tribes only chief
• And of her heart I became the only thief
•
• As we road through the open country
• I could feel her hand cling to me
• As we road to the mountains far in site
• I heard her say that this love is right.
•
• That night I lay, near the fire’s golden glow
• As she was dancin, though the risin’ smoke
• She twisted and turned, looking right through me
• Her snake like movements, were hypnotizing
•
• As we laid out beneath the pine tree
• I could feel her hand cling to me
• As we fell asleep with the moonlight
• I heard her say that this love is right
•
• Her father woke me up, with a knife blade
• With his warriors, all in their warpaint
• They were ready to kill me where I lay
• Clinging to her hand in the light of the new day
•
• She begged and pleaded, cried to her father
• Who drew back his bow, and did not bother
• She stood between us, backed right into my chest
• Then turned to me and placed, my hand right on her breast
•
• As I felt her heart a beating
• I could feel her hand cling to me
• As I reached for my guns to fight
• I heard her say that this love is right.
•
• Instead of fighting, we ran as fast as we could
• Into the darkness and cover of the forest wood
• We reached a cliff, overlooking the running water
• We had to leap out, to avoid her trailing father
•
•
• As we floated down so gently
• I could feel her hand cling to me
• As we fell in our final flight
• I heard her say that this love is right
You broke down
The psychic who wandered
The back roads
Who wrote down
Poems to his old dead mother
Who’s father was a soldier
And farther sanity
Wandered with immortality
Knowing not
The life he’s got
Slowly rots
And twists like knots
Into that spot
Where nobody every goes
Cause nobody asks him his name
And soon his wandering slows
The death of a hobo.
You haunt me like a ghost I never knew
But one I always wanted to know
Your name comes to me in dreams
I see a steady flow of your photos
The vocalization
The warning dripped off your tongue
In your own tranquil voice
Spitting words so casually
They sound of repetition
Repetition within oneself
The freedom in the echo of your voice
Nonchalant
You came of age
A debutante
She may try to truncate my vitals
Blame me for all bitter winter winds
That snag snip and nip at your heels
I never asked for one alteration
But the winds that you breath carried on
And I am a stagnant build up in potholes that get covered and rubbered by your wheels.
But I’ll stay till the dawning
Then the new day is yawning
