I heard it again in a sequel of a dream, albino peacocks dining on macadamia nuts
and red wine
with ghosts of street artists in the distance
painting pictures of Steve McQueen....and they were calling your name, reading from a closed book that said
you still love me....then, the endless years spent chasing ghosts through graceland (they were looking for you, so
I followed them)
and suddenly the Western sky settles down to a mild winter hue (and I long for you)
in the midnight garden of love's
lucid domain....those distant ghosts crashing the castle gates once more, trying
so hard to prevent a reduction in
of cognitive random access memory....
The moon crying itself to sleep again;
to that godawful sound of the dream merchant's wicked laughter (I traded my gold for his silver)
The heavens frowning again;
and the stars echoing the same sentiment, scribbling smh in the macrocosm.
And even though the ultradeluxe business
of it all seems a bit of a
it's really rather just business as usual. Yes, just fine....hollowed by daybreak's ritual sunrise....washing love letters
in the sand onto the shores of time, all just fine in love's nocturnal preserve, but we could actually do without the laughter.