head's in a pot of magic-moving
thinking it can turn about on silver dimes
with sensations of the after-glowings
of love or the taste of fresh apple pie

don't know why this spin refreshes
or sends me into the realms of the dead
but i sit watching the blurring sweetness
fall o'er the face of my love

strange echoes seep up from the past
of longings more unsettled than truth
of lost journeys into the darkened future
into the place i'd like to call home

but i sit at the window of torn farewells
near the door where dreams long to appear
and wait, stilted and partially shackled
with cold envy clinging like a kiss

ah, my shadowed memories and heated longings
my short dreams of all that could have been
i stare at the door where death may early enter
awaiting the fire's sweet after-life

tho broken and disappointed through countless ventures
peace with life is what i've stoked



*...crowds are caught up in the rush to conformity.  Lured by money and success, they become raw material for dictatorships, and for the democracies which are partly or already dictatorships.  It sometimes happens that men decide to excel in order to institute reforms.  They usually end up destroyed, content to mediate between various tendencies, to adjust appearances, to bring laws into line with customs.  Others set out to be revolutionaries.  But to employ violence against these evils is to bear them in oneself.  As soon as a cause triumphs, it's time to oppose it in the very name of the value that created it.

My preference is for rebels, those whose sanity leads them to relativize the ideas and automatic reflexes that society produces in them.
-Jean Sulivan