two birds one stone
Posted on Dec 12th, 2008
by
Shanti
Conversing with time,
she listens as the plot unfurls.
Relaxing into the part,
twisting her fingers through the threads of thought.
They come in waves,
of mine then yours;
holy on thier divisive mission of God.
Because crossing chickens with eggs, with my own two hands gets sticky.
The footprints lead accross the road in both directions still nobody really cares why.
And somtimes it's so funny that not even I get it,
but I love to laugh.
In the middle of the dream,
we cut and bind it to this broken soul,
Wedged between this rock and the hard place.
winged prayers of hope,
fluttering inside glass houses,
throwing pebbles to insult and incite us.
Storming the gates of heaven where angels lust for blood.
Of we with nothing to hold on to and nothing left to loose.
She cries because you don't understand,
how everything means nothing;
if your not here,
if I'm not real,
As if Love isn't the seventh sense of grace,
revealed as this.
The stone sinks,
Rippling through the reflections of me and you,
held fast under the same spell,
nestled in the feathered palm of destiny itself.
And you can argue with that, but need knows love better than we ouselves could be.
Changing the ending as we make it up, we sing.
Because God knows best,
and time said it isn't over yet.
she listens as the plot unfurls.
Relaxing into the part,
twisting her fingers through the threads of thought.
They come in waves,
of mine then yours;
holy on thier divisive mission of God.
Because crossing chickens with eggs, with my own two hands gets sticky.
The footprints lead accross the road in both directions still nobody really cares why.
And somtimes it's so funny that not even I get it,
but I love to laugh.
In the middle of the dream,
we cut and bind it to this broken soul,
Wedged between this rock and the hard place.
winged prayers of hope,
fluttering inside glass houses,
throwing pebbles to insult and incite us.
Storming the gates of heaven where angels lust for blood.
Of we with nothing to hold on to and nothing left to loose.
She cries because you don't understand,
how everything means nothing;
if your not here,
if I'm not real,
As if Love isn't the seventh sense of grace,
revealed as this.
The stone sinks,
Rippling through the reflections of me and you,
held fast under the same spell,
nestled in the feathered palm of destiny itself.
And you can argue with that, but need knows love better than we ouselves could be.
Changing the ending as we make it up, we sing.
Because God knows best,
and time said it isn't over yet.

Help



