He Sings of Death To Live

Silence, says the man.
Silence, obeys the woman.

He can see clearly now,
the rain has gone.
Bye bye Miss American Pie,

He sings songs of freedom,
the nowhere road,
even the bees have more direction,
and the sweet cherries who,
stretching their parental  branches,
lean away from grove to ground,
those cherries that were never picked:
their purpose being the return
to earth, to the source of their beginning.

but Him?
the songs of the sixties,
they turned Him to rags,
ears full of candle wax
and smoke in the lungs,
CIA songs, la la la la la L.A.

What’s His purpose?
Guitars and chords and wandering.
Embodiment of the Music,
pin ups and pin downs,
sex drugs rock and rolling.

This is His purpose?

Want Me, says the man.
Want, obeys the woman.

The roots stir the soil,
and the worms wiggle round,
the things He doesn’t understand,
the things that are invisible,
the things only She can see,
silent, soft through the waters,
She glides, glad with the dolphin

She knows their presence in the air,
in the sea, in the earth and fire
and her heart is glad that they are.

Why the smiles, He asks?
Give me reasons.
Questions demanding answers,
gave up the quest a long time ago:
He wanted the feast before the hunt,
the feast instead of the hunt,
the full belly before the feast,
the end before the beginning.

just the end, thanks.

He sings of life,
but leans towards death,
needling tears of the Cobain,
depressioned hero,
king of the walking dead,
a song of the young fruit that is dying,
that wants to want to be dying,
and yet still the tears do fall.

too many questions.

But She hears a small breath,
like She sees a tiny light
in the darkest of His places,
cherries falling to the ground,
red shine reflecting the clear moonlight,
the tiny moons in her eyes.

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