Waiting for time to show its face to me
While faceless zombies stand in a line
Hope like glass is in their empty eyes
It whispers endless phrases into its fire on grass
The trumnpet players harmonizes with the wind
Questions unanswered
They fill his dreams…
From his first note ever sung to his last
Oh so fast
Across the field where the zombies chant
A maiden with burgandy locks
Hums to herself
About sweeter things
She tries to relate then she cannot
A writer by an olive tree whistles
As his pen passes pages of his thoughts
He could be a friend to himself
Or the demon of his own defeat
Or a slave to his own beliefs
The clouds cross the blue ocean of heaven
Then darken and thunder and scream
The zombies cringe and they drop to the earth
The tumpet player falters
“What’s it worth? What’s it all worth?”
The maiden feels her death
In her eyes and in her heart…
And the writer it is he who compiles the scene
And so they form a line and straight and narrow
And march into a machine
Single file they march in line

And are carried away from their dreams

All of these scenes leave me touched
And confused, as to just how they relate
To me, and everyone I see
I guess that it’s just all part of the scene
And that is all they will ever be…
All just parts of a scene

And are carried away from their dreams