The twixt is turned and the twine is twisted
To think of going back is a waste of time
To the demented decisions of a youthful man
Looking for his dog that ran away into the woods.
To come into the present and think of a way
Looking back to the future to avoid Mr. Fox
And be scared by the very thought of myself
Appearing before a jury of my peers and thinking
Loving to look at the wasted dreams
Of love forlorn to far away places of nightmares
Wiffing perfumed weed to allow the mind to wander
To the caffeinated hull of the ship Lucia.
Words sporadically entering the mind to flow
Through the pen of the keypad clicking away
Furiously thinking of what to do
And how to avoid the curious implications
And hoping that soon the earthly sands
Enter in and pass without
Or offer love and deep refrains
To Miles and the men who float below the surface
Of a wasted brain.
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