Ether Surreal
poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2008

 

If there is nothing left to do
When there i no music left to use
With your rythem, I'm sure you'll live a little
When death comes knocking down your doors

If there is noone left to pursuade
To light a a candle and through darkness wade
So the rest of us can shed some thought
To this world in which we are caught

The meaning of life, even though there is none
Why the rain comes, and why there is sun
That shines in the sky, we know of this one
And millions more like it, and millions to come

We are like a typo, a grammatical phrase
Someones mistake that they will erase
You are like freckle, a speck on their face
They appriciate less for every portrait they place

Around the house, on walls, in praise
Symetrically aligned, with figuratives in them
Figures in the paintings, and particles, and space
For more details that only time can arrange

We age by the days that pass us by
As the grey clouds in our changeless sky
The sky is the same, the clouds that fly
Are deranged like cripples, and I ask why

They speed up a little when catching breeze
Sail away over vast blue seas
But they never return, never a familiar form
In the sky, and tonight, I hear the storm

Whining over losses, whipping up it's steam
Rearranging the landscapes, leaping into our dreams
Pancakes and choopy waffles, strawberries and cream
I doubt I can persuade you that I mean, everything I wonder