2002-01-03

My bed still smells like
Bad dreams and cheap beer
And is still warm from
Things best not mentioned in public
While the moon calls to me
In it's slurring, drunken voice
Whispering of
Creations that have yet to be spun
From the web of infinite combinations
Of imagination
And my eyes scream to be fed
From the buffet of images
That dance around the forgotten places
In my mind
My ears want to drink from
That fountain of ineffable words
Of languages both living
And dead and forgotten
Somewhere far away
I can almost hear
The ghost of a saxaphone
As it wails its
Solitary banshee cry out into the shadow
Of every city
These things are like
The call of Destiny to me
Irresistible to even the strongest will
And so I open my eyes
To the darkness
And let it pull me out
Into the labyrinth of neon and starlight

~Matt Magus

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