Dear Friend

dear,

friend

strippin' off seconds of unmistakable prescence

and this is what this is

in its saddest silence of salted acceptance

and it's only a measure of insoluble pleasure

like a whispering feather the waether can turn

and break us all back to born

so follow it magnified

or swallow it gentrified

the styrofoam taste of syrup that's sold itself on sellin'

and i'm sorry

i'm sorry

that i didn't know sooner

if we wade through our wonder

to sift through this mad blunder

from under the thunder of slumber we'll stride

to pull our straps back to born

and in this moment of measure

exist not in leisure

the pleasure of treasure proves pale, lost, and sold

in the light left from never

and i'm sorry

i'm sorry

that i didn't know

pretentiously purple perennial pride

insists to itself that it's rinsed knowing wealth

but i've winced at it's stealth in sealing such stories

the babble in squalor will bubble 'til bold

and break back the beating of the scripted and sold

to forge forward followed by the futures of old

for kindling the flame that urges to hold

(and where will you go when all you know is sold?)

-E. Widmark