Dead Flowers

Take to the woods and walk amongst the dead flower heads
Do you pretend you are alone or pretend you have company?
There amongst the forgotten roads that lead to gorges and plains
Would you have followed leaders that would have discovered them for mapping purposes
Maybe ultimately crawling into their tents to cut their throats or make love to them
Unreasonably meeting the voices that are deep and come into your dreams
You become jealous of the seasons and jealous of the sliding clouds
Nobodies fault and nobodies victim you fall into the mindset
That nobody will call your name at night, nobody will miss you
And I don't know if you should write autobiographies dedicated to the street
Wearing gritted smiles on one end with worn out shoes on the other
But you are the son with the golden hair, you are the son with the broad shoulders
I'm not going to sing the song that is about your life, about your voice
About the times  you have fallen behind
And with all the letters you have written to yourself, all the eulogies you have written to thought
Couldn't you build a wall of books?
Couldn't you smile through the gaps in the trees just to see what will happen?
And the panes of glass will crack with the heat
And you have to continue to ask yourself the questions involving insects and tribal drums
But this is not the time to be the fittest of men
This is not the time to be the slapped face of a man who leeches
Belief has fallen behind truth and management will fall behind trial
But for all I have to say your experience will triumph
Sitting beside fires in the sand wanting to strip naked and rape any man who enquires
Wanting to write long messages to old friends telling them you are slowly forgetting everything
Except for them
And love, the boy with the bony fingers, who once ripped open your chest
And carved a strange sonnet on your lung has moved to Spain
Or was it Ethiopia.
The boats are all burning and Africa is so far...