…
was it but a dream
all the rainy mornings dressed in skin
the evenings in the cold chasing purple stars,
young hearts never getting old
lovers in the chain of storm
fast cars crashing down
some things turn to gold, others never hold;
what I miss the most
is a song my lips be spelling in the scent of Holy Ghosts
on high rocky roads crossing
you were naked in the wild
with a smile dressed in white
and everyone that came along
carved and carried larger stones…
so,
give me back the music and let me play my cello
I still hear the horses
can you keep it breathing until we reach the border?
Alice,
I remember now –
you gave me the stories and I gave them hope
grains of silver on a field of stone,
and I don’t need no colors
to paint it back alive
for I’ll always be a Giant
awake in the exploding Sun…