The mind has been empty, void of reasons
And then there are thoughts, a wild steed
Traversing fiery bushes, jumping over ravines
Inducing exhilaration, sometimes, not
Like an old box file, of old records, moth eaten
Coffee stained papers, smeared with lipstick
In shades of mauve, scarlet reds, blood like
Stuck playing like a broken record, pin and all
The sun of lament has set, drying my will
Crumbling like sun dried tomatoes, atop pizza
Just before it's thrust into a wood fired oven
These days are simple, there isn't much to think
Except cooking a meal, or of mixing a drink
Unlike those old days, of watching stars fade
Dusk to dawn, distanced, in each other's ears
And chance meetings post, to be in an embrace
Those days were not simple, but beautiful
These days are simple, the sunsets aren't pink
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