Mystic Transmissions

Suspicious is thy name along the tops of tables among the low hanging breeze my name is wine and the grated, and fermented to please.

Journey man across the tips of finger rubbed black from our bitter ends, howl like a sunset curved against a flat earth daydream careful now we may get the bends.

Herald the news the boys are laid to rest we shaved our hopes and fears as our faces dissolve from memory that fades and yet remains.

There is no beaten chest that tastes the air low hanging like our names against the ignition of the solar flares that dance in the distance we wait because all we do is care.

Among the blistering breeze chimes whistle as hearts flutter escaping with our lungs like the patter of butterfly wings. The past and pending locked up and peeled away as the newness of each day meets the gasping air as the fresh skin smooths and oils itself into place. Our syncopated timing goes in an out of time the construct in which has kept us here now floating cut from all rhyme. 

Dissolving pallets of tomorrows never dreamt the days which never set but simmer set to be ready in it's own time.