A flower freezing in the pines
On the wind when it blows
On your tongue if you knew
In time, if time really is luck
Music chimes not from these hills
Only sounds for the trees
For the jagged peaks and valleys below
Are empty without you in them
My spine is bent and bending
Laying the fruits of labour
For those too hungry to see
And those who are too blind to hear
The only profession known here
Is chest puffing and ego drowning
Hiding a soul from the world and himself
Taking comfort in dreams of things I fear
An empty field
With no guide post
Pretending to be King
Of the animals who offer everything
Countless time lost to myself
Lost to electric currents and high scores
Lost to
My poisons of every week
For I am weak
As high as I reach
But my hand falls not
Only the dark over the flower left to freeze
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