Sunday, February 28, 2010
Different mixes, yet colour's
the same old light red,
golden even; as we climbed
separately to a higher plane.
Me, at an open-air lounge,
pocketing chips with strikes.
While they, my friends, hit
the highway for half-cooked protein.
Minds meet, levelled after sharing sips,
waking up to the truth, slowly;
at the back seat of the car,
brought during the good old days.
And the young tramp, the monster
with fire even in his yawns;
gets a mirror, the mature gent
pointing out the open gash
from an angry burst there,
a false sense of superiority here,
and a fading sense of humility,
but still with that fool's gold - ethics...
... Or so he thought,
it ain't gold, but only
men posses it; good men
like the two drunkards tonight.
A circle is drawn, blueprints
for a Digital Henge to replace stone.
Where honour forms the pillars;
one, two, the count should grow
and mortals will carry light,
flowers and idealist offerings
- simple words with love,
a virtual space to celebrate life.
Then the legacy from pioneering
a medium which stops
the greedy man from landscaping
a backyard desert in the tropics...
... Which also stops the snarling
editor from cutting trees, talent
and the cub's well-written stories.
Making world perfect or so
the vision - the duo, drowned in
whisky, amour on beanbags;
holding arms and fading off...
... With technicolor dreams
'bout waking up to a new world,
right where we were born,
among familiar shades of blue.