High Avail at Two in the Morning

horizon silver sea lonely moon orange trees the smell of rats the smell of cats the death of caramel frap on a naughty little girl's lap the sap of all wonderful things memories hairbrushes little touches of paint impasto intaglio whatever is the matter with Vincent Van Gogh when he cut his ears and painted on and on who cares is what most people say most people know nothing else to say in this instance of prejudice taking over the serenity of the day i say nay give me thy worst and nothing less the rain glistening on Rushmore's multiple personalities four seasons in a bottle lies in a medicine cabinet frantic fish breathing in an aquarium george and harriet george and harriet always taking turns with the hatchet i bet i bet nothing is sweeter than the day we met and let the hours pass unnoticed why tales of the past of kingdoms cruel and vast of longed for clouds in half mast on the sky of stolen aquamarine tears when mermaids cry the end is nigh nay the end is this nothing more than this hurting little space choking words letting blood flow unceasingly onto plains of white white white space again it births the same old story of people needing lies for every little sin commited every act of repentance not given due credit like a dusty book of psalms open like a hand begging for alms the qualms the qualms of a life begrudged of every fragile breath taken every moment of grief unearthed from the too frozen castle of a heart now who's smart? who's to say the least of all my worries is worth the drama of words etching thought on marbled faces akin to abandoned spaces no one cared for at all at all hear the echos roar roar this space is not this space as free is not as it claims as free as it claims to be to be