sit friend and talk a while
this time tell the truth...who took your white and dark
consumed your shadows and drank the light
from the hollow space in your bones
did you think back when this started you end up
bare assed and alone
the surface now discreet
color is left like a new washed sheet
drying in the breeze that has lost its romance
and with that any chance at meaning
in the lost hours that framed your youth
while you were scheming they slipped away
no more sweet caress in maidens hair
no more grasses moving on naked skin
of raw young boys sculpting creation
like wet legged gods from transient nimbus
an end to screen doors and dust
and old folks...slow sitting
inhaling time one last time
in fact time itself is done
and it sticks to the walls
of the hearts of the young
leeching bitter into every batch of new wine
ain't it funny how time toys with art
machines wandered fields of poetry
that thought to look ahead into the distance
these machines they thought would replace us
or save us
fighting a battle for our existence
for a moment to overcome
and then
in the end to be overcome by our human need to be human
never would poets dream
of our human desire to be machine
to trade the I for iBelief
and feed the matrix with eDreams
go and tell that thing that the nephilim
have abandoned Zion
to the dull grey dust
of a willow molding by the stream
that runs
just to the east
of our parents garden
The lead singer of punk band Camp Cope ventures into romantic synth-pop territory, tempering slick arrangements with bare sentiment.
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