yellow butterfly.

the butterfly yellow, over the waking waters shimmer,
sunlight's the beams over the waters wake as it glimmers and rides.
shimmy shakes and glides,
the white lights, and soft sights all painting pictures for my eyes.
the butterfly water shines like yellow.
sitting near silver shiver shores on sunday i sat mellow.
soft citrus tastes and some soggy sand to bellow.

the aforementioned affirmation of the formed and reformed.

two yellow butterflies,
splitting up, to roam cold hills.
two wings are one,
sitting close,
with wet window sills,
and home so soon ...
so south on wind it flies,
you're changing blocks,
beneath the pale blue skies .

words to inspire ...

what is inspiration without subsequent action?

piano man .

a piano man,
a singer and,
a voice that never comes.
lost days of my youth,
the dreams,
the love and slums.
and if piano music spoke to me,
this song would rattle drums,
have one last look at yesterday,
take a step too far and pray.
the memoirs line the dusty box,
with one warn out key to play.

tick sick soldier tock ...

teeter-tottering to the tick-tock of the clock.
just counting down the seconds,
until the second that we talk.
old organs beckon as we walk.
cus he's just such a sick soldier,
with some several skin diseases,
and some severe sedentary hereditary illness,
old books to fulfill this,
this world he appeases.
but he keeps rolling slowly,
steady on for the four fathers,
or even just the few fathers,
and any others that he pleases.
the broken places, token face.
the love he chases, spoken race.
so which or what way would his world take him and when,
before the future fizzles out in front of him,
which weathered fortress holds a friend.
when where to be is hard to see.
then what to do, is asking you.
and options range from A to B,
then scrolling through means 1 to 2.
and where is this girl?
that everybody talks about,
but nobody knows,
the one i always seem to dream about,
the one that never seems to show.