Drift,from the dead roads of fame,Empty stars falling frozen.The air breathes my lungs away,Into a casket of flesh and corruption.I used to wish dreams would fall,From the dark,voiceless sky,Down into my blank being,Beneath the marrow in my bones.But now,everything collapses above,Black soil falling over my head.Walking in a closed box called existence,A coffin of poets and gods.Whispers of envy and avarice,In a sea of corrupted reveries.Close your eyes and sleep,And in a dream you'll see.A kaleidoscope flower bed,A landscape in a dreaming.Then I'll rest,My poor troubled head.Until the new morning comes,Seeping from a lit in the air,A silent door that exists,Between piety and pathos.Past the flesh,Inside the four corners of the soul,A sweet world of silence,Where the angels used to sing.The house where my mother,Used to dwell and weep.In peace until it comes,In a deathbed of lilies.-Dave Lock