yellow homes
filled with fake fire
light bleeding bone
and burning muscle
the pretence of goodness
is built with not stone, but hay
melting away
when questioned
this place was not made to survive
and yet we strive for triumph, no?
furnished from that flea market
we found flickering out
beside a setting sun
upon the healing plains
under the understanding
that art is not made
to be explained
so, i wonder if we will ever distinguish
between being wishful and wistful
or stay here, instead, in wait
we can wait
because history is not something
that is had
it is made
and conception exists
because curiosity does;
shaping, wailing,
watch ing wait ing
whisper ing winds of changes and same ness
until all is wicked ash and dust
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