getting accustomed to our surroundings.

something human beings are incredibly good at.

There's a buzzing noise that keeps ringing in your ear when you've stepped into the room and it annoys you to no end but within minutes you have become accustomed to it and your body has already registered it as 'irrelevant background noise'.

when something out of the blue starts to happen regularly-

everyday, every week, every month, every hour;

initially it's surprising, annoying, disruptive even, depending on how you perceive it, of course, but within no time you start to get used to it, start to expect it even.

and then when it doesn't happen-

you feel a void.

it's the same with things, random occurences, people.

Nothing is ever constant in (your) life-

No person is ever forever in (your) life-

it's just the little sad feeling that comes with the void,

and the small disappointment that sits in your lap.

Nothing's ever too bad, because, sooner or later,

you'd get used to the void.
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to accompany quiet and contemplative mornings.

stuck in a mason jar

where i sealed up my heart

i take it out once a week

to donate to charity

and through my old grey eyes

i watch the colours change in the sky

as the world slowly turns

and they all collapse

don't hear them knocking at the door

you forgive one thing

they just want more

don't hear a word they try to say

so do us a favour and go on your own way

and all my pictures fall apart

and all my dogs have lost their bark

while the leaves quickly change and leave me in their waste

and i know i do it to myself

yes, i know i do it to myself

old spirits hold tight

but jump in when the temperature's right

-----------------------------------------------

to accompany lyrical and romantic days.

You tried to taste me,
And I taped my tongue to the southern tip of your body.
Our bones are too heavy to come up,
Squished into a single cell of wood.

I made an excuse.
You found another way to tell the truth.
I put no one else above us.
We'll still be best friends when all turns to dust.

We are so smooth now.
Our edges are beaten, drift wood whittled down.
Old bodies slip when they make love.
We'll mine our sparks to shoot us above!