Maybe Hope, Maybe Of Dreams; Maybe Dead.
A mood by the desert of pant'ng lizard,
Someth'ng farther off in stones of little sleeves.
It happens, under the sky that cared-less –
Maybe our hands had grip on dripping sword.
Blood smell on the land like rotten Emu,
Maybe the tiny strings barnful of hays–
Maybe the knotting sun has locked in greys–
Oh truly— maybe the Brook flicker dole.
Perhaps, soft parents willed us to this view,
Maybe twas never doubted with unfaith.
Truly, poverty plus contentment is
great gain; A ritual to read to anoth'r.
Perhaps, renaissance could be morrow too–
Maybe our parents willed us myopic,
Maybe it's custom, law, trad'tion, culture!
Mayb' we'll see best through thin holes of our eyes.
Blood smell on the land like rotten Emu;
Maybe of hope, dreams, morrow; that are smashed,
Maybe it's found in loss of a thrown stone–
into the river; but mixed with cold blood.
"words from the innocent mind"