Sometimes love is empty
but is it really love at all?
(the previous three lines are meant to be sung)
We are all pretty petty people.
A stab inducing kind of rage.
Inner, Stellar, Space.
Where good men have died.
Bombed Squad.
Could it be a passing
fancy to a fleeting figure.
Daydreaming wide awake at night.
floating out
among my thoughts,
vibrations vibrating
ear drums
to a better nature
of myself.
Moments blur
indistinctly
into each other
like watercolors
on a palette.
Questions abound
Answers spring forth
but for things not asked.
(fragments from driving around on 7/13/09)
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