Golden inch a pinch of dust
|
The desert sinks like deserts must
|
A shelf of moon a bag of skies
|
In serpent dips the seconds fly
|
Peril holds your upset day
|
and paints the darkness back to grey
|
Dip my fingers in the stars
|
Princes greet the Eastern Shahs
|
Belts that hold a windy past
|
Your hips regret the tour can't last
|
|
|
Palace gardens melt to milk
|
And servants swim in seas of silk
|
Help is jewels on ivory staffs
|
And watch them roll down secret paths
|
Lace can talk in worlds like this
|
Windows think that branches kiss
|
Sorrows grow if sails are low
|
But gusts of wind make sorrow go
|
Leaning towers cup their sway
|
Fall to foundations locked away
|
|
|
I'll fall asleep inside her hair
|
|
|
Organ grinders pause to live
|
Piano notes exist to give
|
Black and orange fruits begin
|
A race they all intend to win
|
The bottom rung is still the top
|
The ladder though is just a prop
|
Pour me sea into my hand
|
The salt will stay and there's the land
|
Paper filled by swirling thoughts
|
Where ships are sleeping in Porridge Ports
|
|
|
Be here turn your mouth to me
|
Let me sing 'til I agree
|
A pond reflects, a knight denies
|
A shudder in the earth replies
|
A costly stare results in blood
|
Your fragile gun swims in the mud
|
A coat of silver draped in dreams
|
A million maps run through the seams
|
Taste is blue when light is bad
|
But silently you're not that bad
|
|
|
I'll fall asleep inside her hair
|
|
|
Curtains drawn on real views
|
The mountain sits and valleys lose
|
Underneath a bankrupt stone
|
A yellow lizard remembers home
|
On this shrill and gristle day
|
The button holes closed up and fray
|
The hope is glowing on a stick
|
But who believes the snow is thick
|
Only those who push their way
|
From here to Winter Splinter Bay
|
|
|
I'll fall asleep inside her hair
|
|
-----------------
|
Winter Splinter Bay
|
| Marty Willson-Piper |
