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| 17th Century Map of the World |
3/2009
East of Eden,
The Garden of Weedin,
Plantin my seeds
Of deeds that had been undone
By everyone
Except for you
Except for you
Who let the roses grow,
Who had no fear of snow,
You
The cold meant nothing to.
In the moonlight,
On a strange night,
Though I couldn’t see clear,
I watched you disappear,
Around the corner into nowhere
Again.
East of Angels,
West of Heaven,
On the wings of a firebird
Away into a red sky,
Standing there, a Raven,
Looking for a haven?
I don’t know why or who,
Or which bits are true,
Only that this Phoenix flew,
And it does not matter,
What they say,
Nor does the flattery of chatter.
I may never understand,
North of Neverland,
But bats in the belfry
Would think less of me,
And I would too,
If I didn’t do
The right thing,
By the spring of the babbling brook
Of that which I took
And life came through me to.
Shades of nice and easy,
Make me queasy,
Long and difficult,
Was the result.
South of Nowhere,
the outer stratosphere,
Where zombies compare hair
And recipes,
In the deep freeze of suburbia,
I found my salvation,
In my own rhymes,
In my own time,
X marks the spot,
This is everything I’ve got,
This is everything I’ve got,
Buried treasure,
Resurrected,
My heart out of the well,
Broken with the spell,
Glued together with gossamer
Leaking dreams of you that never were
And are still, somehow.
Traveling on with me,
To be,
Here,
Now.
And contemplate a vow,
Made in secret to myself,
Not by hook or by crook
Or circle jerks in a quirk,
Love still finds a way to work,
Forgive and understand,
This isn’t what I planned,
Water gets in everywhere,
And no it isn’t fair,
But maybe sweeter then by far,
Everywhere we are,
For having known we knew,
Another soul as true,
Remembering steadfast,
The Garden outcasts
Outlast
And grow stronger evermore,
Than any roses grew before.
