IN THE WHITE HOUR
White dust annihilates the windows: detritus of oaks, epidermis of kings. I’m riding the frayed gold couch toward a new world oblivion: king of whispers and bad luck. When the smoke clears, I’ll buy you a reason to live if you promise to share. I’ll rewind the tape so we can see every wrong turn in slow motion; freeze-frame your face and un-forget; gather the dust and recreate you; save you from yourself; alter your perception of depth; step out with you over the Grand Canyon.
Like You'd Understand, Anyway