Eighteen days seem so long,
but i haven't had anything to say.
nothing much that was important or meant a thing anyway.
I measure a year not from january to december
but from august to may, with something inbetween
something wonderful and good, with beating drums.
I do not measure my life by events that take place in this room,
nor with coffee spoons
And your eyes go so deep.
Six inches in the back of my head
I see the merry-go-round.
All the pretty little horses and pretty little girls
spinning and twirling around you.
And while you smile, i think you mean it.
After these three days pass,
it will be over.
Here I go, climbing over grassy mountains
and into empty bottles, searching for a way to fly.
Louis held me once,
and drew me a map to the sea.
He packed our bags and took my hand
and told me everything would be alright.
We marched over cobblestone roads
and all the while i thought how much better it would
be if i grew wings. But louis told me
that it cost to fly, with limits and exceptions,
and had all these rules to live by.
While on our way to the sea,
Louis dangled his feet and watched the sun set.
He was collecting the rays of the sun
for his own glory
for his own light
And I wanted to die.
