As the wet desert drips with December pinks,
The metaphors that lurk in its fields
Wait also inside the words that describe,
As inaccessible part of the real.
The metaphors that lurk in its fields
Wait also inside the words that describe,
As inaccessible part of the real.
It seems like a dare, to know I am more
Than a chaser of painterly fancies
Fantasized from explainable facades
Than a chaser of painterly fancies
Fantasized from explainable facades
Conveniently alien and dumb.
How frightened I am they're on the inside,
That I'm older, far wiser than the role
I play, as purveyor of broken clouds,
I play, as purveyor of broken clouds,
That I move like the blues into darkness,
That these wet tumbleweeds and silt curves of earth
Want privileged views of their deeper currents.
So much is asked in this pathos glow.
It's on the leaves, in the breeze, in the light
Want privileged views of their deeper currents.
So much is asked in this pathos glow.
It's on the leaves, in the breeze, in the light
Like something vast, forever escaping,
As if I must make a home for it, I,
Who can't take myself in, except in sleep
And rare nights of pity, when I'm hungry.
As if I must make a home for it, I,
Who can't take myself in, except in sleep
And rare nights of pity, when I'm hungry.
