A Cloud Edged With Gold

I sit at my desk and the night depresses the day
The litter from my mind does cartwheels across my room
You say every cloud has a silver lining
Nut you know I want mine edged with gold
I look at all the portraits
With admiration floating upon my face's sea
And I wonder when, I wonder when
The ghost will become the body
Who is the mechanic of this torment?
Myself? society's fire? Is it merely a memory of what I had in a lifetime gone?
Some drink to remember, some drink to forget
And I hear the sirens call my name
I see them float towards, me those beautiful temptresses
They couple with the muses
And bring about beautiful ideas, too graceful for the minds of men
I hear the oceans of ghosts
I hear them call at me in my sleep
Whispering unspeakable prose
I hear flapping of the angels wings
As they watch me shudder in my sleep
As I mutter and stutter words to songs I've never heard
I hear the voices of soldiers questioning love, questioning death
As they march their soles to the ground
Their souls to the ground
Will we live for much longer?
Will we taste the wine made from each others success?
Fortune has no temple built for her
The muses are all lost in the gardens of Woolf and Forster
I die as a rectangle tells me what to see
I see as a rectangle tells me when to die
And I feel the shaking begin to take over
I feel myself fall into the water, hot, hot water
my skin is grabbed by 9 pairs of hands and lifted
I can not wake from this thundering dream
it is as if grape vines have taken over and marched their tendrils across my body
and then I glance over
I see a ship with wings planted in the hillside
I see levels of water cut into the hill
with lilies and reeds breaking the mirror
I see statues of the gods and heroes
I see walls and gold coins scattered through out
dew is levelled and beaded on the ground
And I run my hand through the stupid grass
And wet my face with the dewy leaves
I stand and swim out through the water spitting a gold coin from my mouth
It is here I start telling the muses a story of litter, cartwheeling
Of night depressing day
And they tell me to listen to the unspeakable prose
For even in the work that no one shall read
There lies a message that some one has written