Your Day

Here is the morning you gave to me once
It was never mine- it is far too sad, like a songbook I could never enjoy
The first line of a novel that invited me into a story I never wanted to read
And here it is, your morning, the occupation of the world
A machine that has no name, a play that has no acts
But now the glass of dawn has broken
Where is the importance of the children, the dialogue?
It is so absurd, we will get caught, most likely
Brilliant, this day, like a buttery voice that convinces us of logic
Every little boy needs a criminal mind, at least for a day
And it is all so still in these dreams of machines
Rusted with the honourable escape from the dark
And the danger was forgotten by those young men with shovels
Who ran through the rain to the towns and the cities
To dig up the roots of day, the roots of the cranes
And the sky will fall upon our edge, upon our bordered lives
The youth can not hide in the gardens of their parents
And the joy of their mothers, the pride of their fathers
Will show upon the wings of the wind, like the rusted colour of the eagle
And now the hills lead us to the water, to the cliff
So everyone is trapped within the day
Where the rain falls upon our heads
Our necks cool with the breath of the season
What do we know in our hearts when we hear those military drums?
What do we learn within that conjuring sleep?
The destruction of the day is built around our words
And every so often I can hear you as you tie those rocks to my ankle
I can hear that song that you were singing
About the train that exploded in the tunnel of Spain
About the focus that you give to the past, to the bullet and the gun
Did you really think that manners and knowledge would give you the world
That patience and the ability to listen to the invisible would get you far?
Oh we are but men who are accidents
Falling against one another when the night is at its most aware
Do we know when we should hesitate
Do we know when the graves shall be dug and why?
Yet the real love is amongst those who lie prostate
Amongst the swaying trees
And the day is bordered by golden frames
We are stilled by the brush and the oil
I can smell fresh glue and wood
Are we the ones who are painted without expression
Expressed with instinct
The family of art against the army of suffocation
And the day was never mind so I return it to you
Breathe it in
And hold it
As you sink into the water