for the wages of sin is life.
what doesn't kill you makes you
what can i say about the mistakes i've made,
but more of the same-
and i've crashed a bike more times than
i care to admit.
and most of the trees will blossom in the spring.
and the songs sung by empty lovers makes
more music than elephants could;
fighting over scraps from the journals of thieves.
and the plans made by sons of gods-or at least
they thought they were.
but what could i know? i went to public school,
where it's better to be lucky in choice
than to know the Truth.
good always comes with the bad, like breathing
the dust of sailors past; traveling into the known unknowns-
and faking bravery,
playing the game of constitution, liberty and
other, "what the fucks," that games hide
to be more enjoyable. because noone knows
how to make their own salads and be happy with
them-i'll keep my plans tight to the chest,
angled, so the light kisses them conscious.
so they'll grow up to be lawyers-
arguing the seas
arguing the depth of law
arguing temperatures seen through the eyes
of estranged boomers
who never learned the meaning of Spring.