Mother Blue. Joyless Man.

White shine your music for those who never live; dream of symphony death. Mother blue, wet from crying, drives out of the winter lake. Delirious lover beneath, though sad, she is enormous. I am gone. I've seen this before and it leaves a warmth like anything. Don't say a thing until something sinks in deep. Let it sink in and trouble the still waters that run; under those tepid currents, those clearly toneless, utterly speechless words that mean nothing. Those motions to adjourn, those keenings from afar, those melted figures, those harbors lulling, those tin drums. Those pangings of the heart. The inability to sit still. Unable to appreciate; in value, this life, that time, those moments. Nothing sinks in as deep as a memory sitting pretty with pretenses abound like done-up marionettes screaming your doubts. These doubts like a theme song: indecision, loose thinking, vague notions, and poured thick. They sit with neon plastic fencing surrounding, waiting to set into stone. No message writ upon them, no cracks. They will solidify level, solid, and perfect. Immaculate. They will be the path I walk upon. Mother blue, delirious lover, loose talker, nothing so entrancing as a stare into the depths of the pier out across the bay. Don't let them be so quick, these pacings. Slippery like ice upon the script of things I can't read because of the blurring of days. The beating of fists upon the underside of a foot thick layer of winter floe; someone cast upon the current to lay under the ice in the frozen lake. The drifts above keep what lies below from seeing too clearly. The skies above, held without doubt, would be held in vain for that which is trapped under frost can not succumb to the lull of hypothermia without complete lack of thought. Seen through clouded glass without tint, this world drips down like tears across the tired woman's face as she drags the lake in January.