Dull Edge March 26, 2009
The senses don't seem to bother me
Nor lift me high like a kite.
It's the gray zone that's hit me all at once
After a time of great sorrow's cry.
I walk out into the daylight hours,
Smell the must, swing at the air,
Never finding any light to flicker.
I look to the night for a little bit of change
That might and ought to do me some good,
But some say "no"! The dull edge wins.
The flowers hang not down nor standing up,
Instead hooking a left at an angle.
The rain drops fall but not so as with bombs.
They plop, make a mess, say, "Step on me."
And the grass looks as graphite
Had been scribbled upon it with a .02 pencil,
And all with that smell of the musty odor feel,
Doesn't hurt so much but lends a dull edge motif.
Perhaps after swinging high in trees
It was time to return to Earth.
Highs are pricy but lows are only woes,
It's time for the dull edge's mirth.
Nor lift me high like a kite.
It's the gray zone that's hit me all at once
After a time of great sorrow's cry.
I walk out into the daylight hours,
Smell the must, swing at the air,
Never finding any light to flicker.
I look to the night for a little bit of change
That might and ought to do me some good,
But some say "no"! The dull edge wins.
The flowers hang not down nor standing up,
Instead hooking a left at an angle.
The rain drops fall but not so as with bombs.
They plop, make a mess, say, "Step on me."
And the grass looks as graphite
Had been scribbled upon it with a .02 pencil,
And all with that smell of the musty odor feel,
Doesn't hurt so much but lends a dull edge motif.
Perhaps after swinging high in trees
It was time to return to Earth.
Highs are pricy but lows are only woes,
It's time for the dull edge's mirth.
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