i wish you could tell me what it is
that makes the tap leak water
and makes the book pages ruffle
and tumbles through my dreams--
almost as if i'm not the only one here.
the brown doors open, the wood peels
and blood pools on the floor and shavings fall from my mouth.
i've fallen into abstractness so deep i can count polygons
and all my memories are just a dream, a sweet distant dream.
the hum of air conditioning and a warm blanket,
someone's diluted my memories with a medical pipette.
i know the key's right there, but my vision swims and wavers
--i think i'm underwater, but oxygen flows through my lungs--
it's all another dream, a sweet distant dream.
i breathe dust and asbestos and close my eyes against the decaying scenery.
how long can i keep being so selfish?--
a coin flip and the walls and floor surround me
in a soft blanket of safety, of my mother's smell
and the way calloused hands felt brushing against mine.
it's all a dream, a sweet distant dream.
anger is the filthiest sin of them all.
(how can i forgive a past that doesn't exist?)
i know all the answers to every question i've asked.
water drips and rolls off of my hair.
the murmuring flicker of fireflies and the city lights at night;
it's all another dream, a sweet distant dream.
i don't know. i don't want to know.
(how can i forgive a present that doesn't exist?)
there is no ending to a song that never started
and i'm stuck on the refrain, choking over and over and over--
i suppose i promised to never forgive myself on some putrid day.